defences about him that a man can have, he felt himself fatally
vulnerable) that he had fought so many years? Why, at his age, should
he be going into exile, away from everything that could make his days
bright and sweet? Why could not he come back there, where he was now
more solitary than he could be anywhere else on earth, and reanimate the
dead body of his home with his old life? He knew why, in an immediate
sort, but his quest was for the cause behind the cause. What had he
done, or left undone? He had tried to be a just man, and fulfil all
his duties both to his family and to his neighbors; he had wished to be
kind, and not to harm any one; he reflected how, as he had grown older,
the dread of doing any unkindness had grown upon him, and how he had
tried not to be proud, but to walk meekly and humbly. Why should he be
punished as he was, stricken in a place so sacred that the effort to
defend himself had seemed a kind of sacrilege? He could not make it out,
and he was not aware of the tears of self-pity that stole slowly down
his face, though from time to time he wiped them away.

He heard steps in the hall without, advancing and pausing, which must be
those of his son coming back for him, and with these advances and pauses
giving him notice of his approach; but he did not move, and at first
he did not look up when the steps arrived at the threshold of the room
where he sat. When he lifted his eyes at last he saw Bittridge lounging
in the door-way, with one shoulder supported against the door-jamb, his
hands in his pockets and his hat pushed well back on his forehead. In an
instant all Kenton's humility and soft repining were gone. "Well, what
is it?" he called.

"Oh," said Bittridge, coming forward. He laughed and explained, "Didn't
know if you recognized me."

"I recognized you," said Kenton, fiercely. "What is it you want?"

"Well, I happened to be passing, and I saw the door open, and I thought
maybe Dick was here."

It was on Kenton's tongue to say that it was a good thing for him
Dick was not there. But partly the sense that this would be unbecoming
bluster, and partly the suffocating resentment of the fellow's
impudence, limited his response to a formless gasp, and Bittridge went
on: "But I'm glad to find you here, judge. I didn't know that you were
in town. Family all well in New York?" He was not quelled by the silence
of the judge on this point, but, as if he had not expected any definite
reply to w