The Judge was, this evening, at the desk and writing. He used a stiff, stub pen; and he wrote slowly, forming the large characters with care, forming the pellucid sentences with equal care. He consulted no notes; it was his custom to clarify the issues in any case so thoroughly in his own thoughts that there could be no hesitation when the moment came to set those issues down. Half a dozen sheets, already covered with his large hand, lay at his elbow. His pen was half-way down another when a light knock sounded upon his closed door. The Judge finished the sentence upon which he was engaged, then lifted his eyes and looked across the room and called: “Come, Mary.” His wife opened the door and stepped inside. She shut it behind her, and crossed to her husband’s chair, and dropped her hand lightly on his head. He lifted his own hand to smooth hers caressingly. “Almost through?” she asked. He nodded. “Another line or two.” “Jim Cotterill is down-stairs,” she told him. The Judge seemed faintly surprised. “Jim?” he repeated. And added thoughtfully, half to himself, “Well, now.” “He says there’s no hurry,” she explained. “Says he just dropped in for a word or two. Just to say howdy.” “That’s--neighborly,” her husband commented. “Course, I’ve seen him every day, in court. But I haven’t had a chance to talk to him. To ask him how things are, down home.” She nodded, smiling. “Another of your scruples, Bob?” “It wouldn’t hardly have looked right,” he agreed. “The other side were doubtful, anyway, knowing I’d been attorney for the Furnace a few years ago, and knowing Jim and me were townsmen.” “I know,” she assented. “Case is finished, now, though,” he commented. “Tell Jim I’ll be through in fifteen or twenty minutes. You entertain him, Mary.” She made a gesture of impatience. “He makes me uncomfortable,” she said. “I never liked him.” The Judge smiled. “Oh, Jim’s all right. He’s fat; and he’s a little bit slick. But he means all right, I reckon. Give him a cigar and ask after his folks. He’ll do the talking for both of you.” She nodded, moving toward the door. “Yes,” she assented; and asked: “I haven’t bothered you?” The Judge smiled. “Lord, Honey, you never bother me.” But when the door had closed behind her, his countenance was faintly shadowed. Concern showed in his eyes, dwelt there. He remained for a little time motionless, absorbed in some thought that distressed him. In the end, there was a suggestion of effort in his movements as he picked up his pen and began again his slow and careful writing. Bethany Iron Furnace against John Thomas, David Jones, et al. His decision. II It was half an hour later that the Judge came out of his study to the head of the stairs and shouted down them: “Hi, Jim!” Cotterill, a certain impatience increasingly manifest in his eyes, had been talking with Mrs. Hosmer. He answered, and the Judge called to him: “Come along up.”