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390 man about the house. I cannot yet tell whether you are suited to the law or not. As for your father's papers, we must investigate them. It will take a little time to straighten out those matters. Meanwhile, consider the house your own. I will tell Pompey to get you a young negro for a body-servant. There is a good saddle-horse in the stable for your use. Please do not hesitate to come to me at any time."

To tell the truth, I was more than satisfied. There was a certain indescribable romance about this first evening in my grandfather's house—the people, the streets, the mansions, even the trees, were more picturesque than I had dreamed them. Even the word "moonshining," casually dropped from my uncle's lips, had sent a delightful thrill through my veins.

I looked up from my dreaming. Mr. Coke sat with his fingers carefully pointed before him. He had finished his cigar, and his fine head, with its lofty brow and gray, curling hair, drooped slightly forward.

"How far is Happy Valley out of Petersham, Uncle?" said I.

He started, as if I had broken in on his chain of thought. "A matter of five miles or so. Why do you ask?"

"I was thinking of riding over to see this Burney."

"What would be the good of that?" said Mr. Coke.

"He rather interests me. I'd like to see him at close range."

My uncle thought the matter over for a few moments. "I can see no harm in that, Richard," he finally concluded. "You shall ride over in the morning and take him a message from me, or, rather, counsel by word of mouth. Advise him to have more care of his tongue, or there may be trouble."

The clock in the tower of the Methodist church across the way boomed eleven strokes. Mr. Coke rose to his feet.

"Time you went to bed, Richard boy," said he. "You must be weary after your long journey. Good-night and pleasant dreams."

He made me a courteous bow, and I returned it with due formality. I had been weary when I reached the house, but was so no longer. I was too much interested in the men and things about me.

My uncle went into the house, and I followed him. Pompey lighted up the stairs to the landing, where our paths separated. My uncle turned to his rooms on the left, I to the wing on the right. I found a gentle breeze blowing the candles on my mantel. I leaned from the window-sill and inhaled the soft fragrance of the roses and mignonette in the garden below. I watched the moon slowly sail beyond the trees, throwing them into a silver glory. It was some time before I could draw in my head and prepare to sleep. I was delighted with the soft brilliance of the summer night, with the quaint little town, so different from any I had known, and with the stately, majestic figure of