As Michael had no definite knowledge of either his exact age, or what month his birthday came, there could be no day set for his coming of age. The little information that could be gathered from his own memory of how many summers and winters he had passed showed that he was approximately seven years old at the time of the shooting affray. If that were correct it would make him between nineteen and twenty at the time of his graduation. On the first day of July following his first winter in New York Michael received a brief letter from Mr. Endicott, containing a check for a thousand dollars, with congratulations on his majority and a request that he call at the office the next day. Michael, eager, grateful, overwhelmed, was on hand to the minute appointed. The wealthy business man, whose banking affairs had long since righted themselves, turned from his multifarious duties, and rested his eyes upon the young fellow, listening half-amused to his eager thanks. The young man in truth was a sight to rest weary eyes. The winter in New York had put new lines into his face and deepened the wells of his blue eyes; they were the work of care and toil and suffering, but—they had made a man’s face out of a boy’s fresh countenance. There was power in the fine brow, strength in the firm, well-moulded chin, and both kindliness and unselfishness in the lovely curves of his pleasant lips. The city barber had been artist enough not to cut the glorious hair too short while yet giving it the latest clean cut curve behind the ears and in the neck. By instinct Michael’s hands were well cared for. Endicott’s tailor had looked out for the rest. “That’s all right, son,” Endicott cut Michael’s sentence short. “I’m pleased with the way you’ve been doing. Holt tells me he never had a more promising student in his office. He says you’re cut out for the law, and you’re going to be a success. But what’s this they tell me about you spending your evenings in the slums? I don’t like the sound of that. Better cut that out.” Michael began to tell in earnest protesting words of what he was trying to do, but Endicott put up an impatient hand: