Pausing now, a moment, to view his favorite scene, the lowlands by the river under their silvery mantle of vapor, he turned and took the sharp descent from the bluff to the old turnpike. A cherry tree in full bloom stood like a ghost at the corner of Judge Hollis’ orchard, and the long lane was white with the falling petals. A light shone warmly through the crimson curtains of Judge Hollis’ library window, and Caleb took the familiar path to the side door. The latch was usually down, but to-night he had to knock, and the judge’s sister, Miss Sarah, opened the door. “Is that you, Caleb?” she said, in her high thin voice; “wipe your feet. I wish men folks were all made like cherubs anyway, then there wouldn’t be all this mud tracked over my carpets.” “We might moult our wing feathers, Miss Sarah,” Caleb ventured unsmilingly, while he obeyed his instructions to the letter. “I’d as lief have feathers as pipe ashes,” she retorted; “in fact I’d rather--I could make pillows of ’em.” “You can’t complain of my pipe ashes, Miss Sarah,” Trench said, a slow laugh dawning in the depths of his gray eyes. “Is the judge at home?” “Can’t you smell tobacco smoke?” she replied, moving in front of him across the entry, her tall figure, in its plain green poplin with the turn-down collar of Irish lace, recalling to Trench, in the most extreme of contrasts, the other tall figure in its beautiful evening dress, that had stood so haughtily in Colonel Royall’s drawing-room, seeming to him the most perfect expression of beauty and charming grace that he had ever seen, though he still felt the sting of Diana’s glance and the sarcasm of her receipt. He had carried the money back in good faith, for his Quaker training made six cents as significant to him as six hundred cents, but, under all his strong and apparently unmoved exterior, there was a quick perception of the attitude of others toward his views and toward himself. In the strength of his own virile character he had not fully realized where he stood in her eyes, but after that night he did not forget it. Meanwhile, Miss Sarah had opened the study door. “Judge,” she called to her brother, “Caleb’s here.” There was no response, and she went away, leaving Caleb to find his own welcome. He went in and closed the door. Judge Hollis was sitting at his desk smoking a long black pipe and writing carefully in a hand as fine and accurate as a steel engraving. The room was low, papered with old-fashioned bandbox paper and filled with bookcases with glass doors, every one of which hung open. In the corner was a life-sized bust of Daniel Webster. As Caleb entered, the judge swung around in his revolving chair and eyed him over his spectacles. He was a big man with a large head covered with abundant white hair, a clean-shaven face with a huge nose, shaped like a hawk’s and placed high between the deep-set eyes.