“I--even I--” said Stephen, tapping his chest, “have at least made the acquaintance of one prominent citizen, Mr. Eliphalet D. Hopper. According to Mr. Dickens, he is a true American gentleman, for he chews tobacco. He has been in St. Louis five years, is now assistant manager of the largest dry goods house, and still lives in one of Miss Crane's four-dollar rooms. I think we may safely say that he will be a millionaire before I am a senator.” He paused. “And mother?” “Yes, dear.” He put his hands in his pockets and walked over to the window. “I think that it would be better if I did the same thing.” “What do you mean, my son--” “If I went to work,--started sweeping out a store, I mean. See here, mother, you've sacrificed enough for me already. After paying father's debts, we've come out here with only a few thousand dollars, and the nine hundred I saved out of this year's Law School allowance. What shall we do when that is gone? The honorable legal profession, as my friend reminded me to-night, is not the swiftest road to millions.” With a mother's discernment she guessed the agitation, he was striving to hide; she knew that he had been gathering courage for this moment for months. And she knew that he was renouncing thus lightly, for her sake an ambition he had had from his school days. Widow passed her hand over her brow. It was a space before she answered him. “My son,” she said, let us never speak of this again: “It was your father's dearest wish that you should become a lawyer and--and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us.” She rose and kissed him good-night. “Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning, remember his kindness, and--.” “And keep my temper. I shall, mother.” A while later he stole gently back into her room again. She was on her knees by the walnut bedstead. At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane's, girded for the struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple. He was not afraid, but a poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to be bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of his father. Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and believe in others having a hard time. To a young man, who as his father's heir in Boston had been the subject of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly distasteful. But it had to be gone through. So presently, after inquiry, he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome of which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be completed. Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty stairway. Here was a sign, “Law office of Silas Whipple.”