"Honeymoon's kind of waning--eh, Henry?" asked Judge Van Dorn, who dropped in for a magazine and heard the conversation about the passing of the year. He added: "I see you've been coming down here pretty regularly for three or four months!" Henry looked up sadly and shook his head. "You can't break the habit of a dozen years. And I got to coming here back in the days when George ran a pool and billiard hall, and I suppose I'll come until I die, and then George will bring his wheezy old quartette around and sing over me, and probably act as pall-bearer too--if he doesn't read the burial service of the lodge in addition." "Well, a year's a year," said the suave Judge Van Dorn. "A year ago you boys were smoking on me as the new judge of this judicial district. All hail Thane of Cawdor--" He smiled his princely smile, taking every one in with his frank, bold eyes, and waved himself into the blustery night. There he met Mr. Calvin, who, owing to a turn matters had taken at home, was just beginning another long period of exile from the hearthstone. He walked the night like a ghost, silent and grim. His thin little neck, furrowed behind by the sunken road between his arteries, was adorned by two tufts of straggling hair, and as his overcoat collar was rolled and wrinkled, he had an appearance of extreme neglect and dejection. "Did you realize that it's over a year since election?" said Van Dorn. "We might as well begin looking out for next year, Joe," he added, "if you've got nothing better to do. I wish you'd go down the row to-night and see the boys and tell them I want to talk to them in the next ten days or so; a man never can be too early in these things; and say--if you happen in the Company store down there and see Violet Mauling, slip her a ten and charge it to me on the books; I wonder how she's doing--I haven't heard of her for three months. Nice girl, Violet."