me, a sutler?" inquired Mahaffy
insultingly.

"No, sir--a colonel of infantry!--I say, when I went to the war, one of
these Hazards accompanied me as my orderly. His grandson is back of that
curtain now--asleep--in my bed!" Mahaffy put down his glass.

"You were like this once before," he said darkly. But at that instant
the shuck tick rattled noisily at some movement of the sleeping boy.
Mahaffy quitted his chair, and crossing the room, drew the quilt aside.
A glance sufficed to assure him that in part, at least, the judge spoke
the truth. He let the curtain fall into place and resumed his chair.

"He's an orphan, Solomon; a poor, friendless orphan. Another might
have turned him away from his door--I didn't; I hadn't the heart to. I
bespeak your sympathy for him."

"Who is he?" asked Mahaffy.

"Haven't I just told you?" said the judge reproachfully. Mahaffy
laughed.

"You've told me something. Who is he?"

"His name is Hannibal Wayne Hazard. Wait until he wakes up and see if it
isn't."

"Sure he isn't kin to you?" said Mahaffy.

"Not a drop of my blood flows in the veins of any living creature,"
declared the judge with melancholy impressiveness. He continued with
deepening feeling, "All I shall leave to posterity is my fame."

"Speaking of posterity, which isn't present, Mr. Price, I'll say it is
embarrassed by the attention," observed Mahaffy.

There was a long silence between them. Mr. Mahaffy drank, and when
he did not drink he bit his under lip and studied the judge. This was
always distressing to the latter gentleman. Mahaffy's silence he
could never penetrate. What was back of it--judgment, criticism,
disbelief--what? Or was it the silence of emptiness? Was Mahaffy dumb
merely because he could think of nothing to say, or did his silence
cloak his feelings-and what were his feelings? Did his meditations
outrun his habitually insulting speech as he bit his under lip and
glared at him? The judge always felt impelled to talk at such times,
while Mahaffy, by that silence of his, seemed to weigh and condemn
whatever he said.

The moon had slipped below the horizon. Pleasantville had long since
gone to bed; it was only the judge's window that gave its light to the
blackness of the night. There was a hoofbeat on the road. It came nearer
and nearer, and presently sounded just beyond the door. Then it ceased,
and a voice said:

"Hullo, there!" The judge scrambled to his feet, and taking up the
candle, ste