The young man bent over his dying mother, and with much emotion, gave her the solemn promise which she desired. Tender was the last kiss she gave him, warm the thanks which she expressed, and sweet the smile which she wore, and which was left on her countenance after her spirit had gone up to meet the smiles of the Redeemer. Some months after the death of his mother, the young man left the shadows of the Green Mountains, and toward a more sunny region, in a large and thrifty village, he opened his office; the sign gave his name, and under it, the words, “Attorney at Law.” There he was found early and late, his office clean and neat, and his few books studied over and over again, but no business. The first fee which he took was for writing a short letter for his black wood-sawyer, and for that he conscientiously charged only a single sixpence! People spoke well of him, and admired the young man, but still no business came. After waiting till “hope deferred made the heart sick,” one bright morning a coarse-looking, knock-down sort of a young man was seen making toward the office. How the heart of the young lawyer bounded at the sight of his first client! What success, and cases, and fees danced in the vision in a moment! “Are you the lawyer?” said the man, hastily taking off his hat. “Yes, sir, that’s my business. What can I do for you?” “Why, something of a job, I reckon. The fact is I have got into a little trouble, and want a bit of help.” And he took out a five dollar bill, and laid it on the table. The young lawyer made no motion toward taking it. “Why don’t you take it?” said he. “I don’t call it pay, but to begin with—a kind of wedge—what do you call it?” “Retention-fee, I presume you mean.” “Just so, and by your taking it, you are my lawyer. So take it.” “Not quite so fast, if you please. State your case, and then I will tell you whether or not I take the retention-fee.” The coarse fellow stared. “Why, mister, the case is simply this. Last spring I was doing a little business by way of selling meat. So I bought a yoke of oxen of old Maj. Farnsworth. I was to have them for one hundred dollars.” “Very well—what became of the oxen?” “Butchered and sold out, to be sure.” “By you?” “Yes.” “Well, where’s the trouble?” “Why, they say, that as I only gave my note for them, I need not pay it, and I want you to help me to get clear of it.” “How do you expect me to do it?” “Plain as day, man; just say, gentlemen of the jury, this young man was not of age when he gave Maj. Farnsworth the note, and therefore, _in law_, the note is good for nothing—that’s all!” “And was it really so?” “Exactly.” “How came Maj. Farnsworth to let you have the oxen?” “Oh, the godly old man never suspected that I was under age.” “What did you get for the oxen in selling them out?” “Why, somewhere between one hundred and thirty and one hundred and forty dollars—they were noble fellows!”