Meanwhile the Judge had sallied forth from the house, and was proceeding in the direction of the Bascom Place. His step was firm and elastic, his bearing dignified. The acquaintances whom he met on his way stopped and looked after him when they had returned his Chesterfieldian salutation. He walked rapidly, and there was an air of decision in his movements that had long been lacking. At the great gate opening into the avenue of the Bascom Place the Judge was met by Prince the mastiff, who gave him a hospitable welcome, and gravely preceded him to the house. Miss Sophie, Mr. Underwood’s maiden sister, who was sitting in the piazza, engaged on some kind of feminine embroidery, saw the Judge coming, too late to beat a retreat, so she merely whipped behind one of the large pillars, gave her dress a little shake at the sides and behind, ran her hands over her hair, and appeared before the caller cool, calm, and collected. “Good-morning, madam,” said the Judge in his grand way, taking off his hat. “Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Sophie. “Have this chair?” “No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly, and waving his hand. “I prefer my own chair—the large rocker with the cushion, you know. It is more comfortable.” Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a rocker. It had no cushion, but the Judge seemed not to miss it. “Why, where are the servants?” he asked, his brows contracting a little. “I could have brought the chair.” “Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I were to sit down and expect the negroes to wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments during the day.” “Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very true; very true. Where is Wesley?” “I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie replied. “Is he a white man or a negro?” “Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.” “Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie inquired, regarding him curiously. “Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the Judge. “Well, I’ve seen a negro named Jesse following you and your daughter about,” said Miss Sophie. “Perhaps you are speaking of Jesse.” “No, no,” said the Judge. “I mean Wesley—or maybe you are only a visitor here. Your face is familiar, but I have forgotten your name.” “I am Francis Underwood’s sister,” said Miss Sophie, with some degree of pride. “Ah, yes!” the Judge sighed—“Francis Underwood. He is the gentleman who has had charge of the place these several years. A very clever man, I have no doubt. He has done very well, very well indeed; better than most men would have done. Do you know where he will go next year?” “Now, I couldn’t tell you, really,” Miss Sophie replied, looking at the Judge through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “He did intend to go North this fall, but he’s always too busy to carry out his intentions.” “Yes,” said Judge Bascom; “I have no doubt he is a very busy man. He has managed everything very cleverly here, and I wish him well wherever he goes.”