"Now you are going to scold," said his wife, in a demure tone that sounded odd from one of her years. But Madame often assumed the airs of youthfulness, without realizing how poorly they suited her.

"I would never scold you, Cora, if you would only think always before you act. You have been both unwise and unreasonable."

"I would not have been if you had informed me in advance that the boy was coming. But you never tell me anything, Emanuel."

"Perhaps I should have done so in this case. But I only decided yesterday, just before I left the country. A letter would not have reached you, and I would not telegraph, because you are always frightened by a despatch."

"The horrid things! I hate telegrams!"

"Exactly! It was from consideration for you that I did not notify you. As soon as I reached home I came here to find you and explain, but you had run down the other stairway, and so unfortunately you met Leon before I intended you should."

"Leon Grath?" There was an accent upon the last name, and an inflection of the voice very delicately expressed, which intimated that there was a doubt. Madame could not resist speaking thus quickly, hoping that a glance, an expression, however fleeting, might cross the Doctor's face, which would be a clue upon which she might base her future investigation. But she gained nothing by the manoeuvre, and the Doctor continued, as though unsuspicious of her intent.

"Yes, Leon Grath. Sit down and I will tell you about him. Some years ago I first met Leon, while hunting in the vicinity of his home, he had broken his leg, and I set it for him. Subsequently in succeeding years we have hunted together. This summer I was intending to look him up, as a companion on a fishing excursion. Arriving in his neighborhood, I learned that his mother had just died, leaving no will, and that the farm would be sold and the boy left penniless, through a technicality which made the small estates revert to the surviving sisters. These old hags hated Leon, and, consequently, from a comfortable home, he was about to become an outcast. I therefore decided to bring him home with me. He will now live with us."

"Forever?" gasped Madame, surprised to learn that, instead of a guest, the lad was destined to be a permanent addition to their household.

"Forever!" replied the Doctor, with just a little severity; enough to check the expression of resentment which he saw rising. Then in order to give her time to regain control of herself he went on. "Yes! I have long needed an assistant, and I am sure that Leon will prove an apt pupil and rapidly learn enough to become useful to me. However, I may be mistaken. He may prove a failure, and then I should find him a position elsewhere." This was offered as a sort of compromise for her acceptance. He held out the possibility that Leon would leave them. Madame was in nowise deceived. She had appreciated the tone of her husband's voice as he uttered the word, "Forever," and she knew that Leon would never leave them on account of proving a failure as a student. However, she accepted the situation, and assumed a satisfaction which was mere dissembling.

"Now that I understand the facts, Emanuel, I shall do all in my power to make the boy happy while he is here, even though it be only for a short time." The last words were in response to her husband's suggestion, but he understood her motive as well as she had comprehended his. Thus they fenced with one another.

"I knew that you would do so, Cora," replied the Doctor. "Will you come down now and speak to Leon before I take him out with me? I must have some clothing ordered for him."

Together they descended to where Leon sat awaiting them, and the youth's fears were set at rest, for the time being at least. Madame approached him with her most alluring manner, and welcomed him, in words, to his new home. She even asked him to forget her brusqueness at their first meeting, and then, suggesting that he must be hungry, rang a bell and ordered light refreshments.

The Doctor sat apart from them, apparently looking over his letters, but in reality observing closely all that transpired, and while Leon was thoroughly charmed by the altered manner of his hostess, Dr. Medjora decided, within his own mind, that in relation to this boy his wife's actions would require the closest scrutiny.

Presently a gong sounded, and a few moments later a servant announced:

"Judge Dudley. Miss Dudley."

The Judge came in with extended hand, and was warmly greeted by the Doctor, while the young lady went up to Madame, who kissed her on her cheek, and received her with an outward show of cordiality, which a close observer might have seen was but a polite veneer. The Doctor hastened to bring Leon forward, and presented him first to the Judge, and then to Miss Agnes Dudley.

The young people bowed their acknowledgments, and as they raised their heads, so that their eyes met, both started slightly. Leon was astonished to recognize the face of the girl whom he had met when studying Venus, and whose image had recurred to him that night on Lake Massabesic.

CHAPTER VI.
AGNES DUDLEY

After the trial of Dr. Medjora, the young men who had so successfully defended him became rapidly prominent. Within six months they were retained in another celebrated case, and won new laurels. Within five years they were counted among the first lawyers of the Metropolis, and had already a practice which assured them ease and comfort for their declining years.

Mr. Dudley continued to be the ardent student that he had always been, and those who knew how well versed he was in law, were not at all surprised when he was eventually made a judge, a position which at this time he had held with honor for five years. He had achieved well-deserved fame. Aside from his undoubted probity, he really graced his position, for it was very seldom that any of his rulings were reversed by the higher courts.

I may mention here, parenthetically, that Mr. Bliss had also risen in his profession, and had just been elected District Attorney, having previously acquitted himself well as an assistant to his predecessor.

Agnes Dudley, the Judge's daughter, was eighteen years of age, having been born about a year after the Medjora trial. Indeed, Dr. Medjora always called her his godchild, because he had been present at her birth, and had enjoyed an intimate acquaintance with her and her parents throughout the years that followed. Judge Dudley had not merely defended Dr. Medjora as a matter of business. Having no positive opinion at the beginning of the trial, he had become convinced during its progress, and especially while his client was on the witness-stand, that Dr. Medjora was entirely innocent of the crime with which he was charged. This feeling was intensified when the jury showed an agreement with him, by acquitting the Doctor, and, as a result, an intense sympathy was aroused in his breast for one who seemed to have wrongfully undergone such an ordeal. For a man must suffer in reputation when once the finger of suspicion is pointed in his direction, and it is out of the power of the State to repair the harm which has been done. Thus, from the position of client, Mr. Dudley elevated the Doctor into that place in his regard occupied by his warmest friends.

Dr. Medjora had been quick to appreciate the affiliation of a man of brains, such as he recognized Judge Dudley to be, and, therefore, the friendship had thriven. None exalted the legal ability of Mr. Dudley higher than did the Doctor, and no one valued Dr. Medjora's professional skill more than did Mr. Dudley. Under these circumstances, of course the Doctor was intrusted with the medical care of the lawyer's family, and thus it was natural that he should feel a paternal regard for his friend's daughter.

If he loved Agnes, she returned his affection in full measure. She used to say, even when a little tot, that she had two papas, and if asked which she loved best, she would reply: "Bofe of 'em."

As she grew older, of course she discriminated between her father and the Doctor, but if Judge Dudley received the greater share of her demonstrations of affection, the Doctor was more than satisfied with what was allotted to him.

In proportion as the Doctor loved the child, so his wife disliked her, though she never exhibited her feelings openly. Indeed, in this one matter she had succeeded in deceiving her husband, who, astute as he was in all other things, had never suspected that Madame harbored any ill-feeling against the girl. But Agnes herself was not very old when she began to understand, and as her wisdom increased with her years, she became less and less demonstrative towards the Doctor when the wife was present. Women detect these hidden heart-throbs with an instinct which is peculiar to their sex, and which transcends reason, in that it is unfailing, however illogical it may seem to a man.

Agnes was a rare child, a rarer girl, and one of the rarest of women as she matured. Without having a beautiful face, measured by the rules of high art, she was endowed with a countenance which might escape notice, but which, having once attracted observation, was never to be forgotten. Hers was a face that the least imaginative could readily recall in a dark room, and by an operation of the mind which produces images subjectively, summon up a hallucination of the girl, as distinct in lineament as though she were present in the flesh. An artist had proven this by sitting in his studio, lighted only by a candle, that he might see his drawing-board, and he had succeeded in producing a portrait of Agnes, as true to life as was possible. He claimed afterward that, without difficulty, he had projected his mental image of her against the dark background of his room, and that he had seen her as clearly as though she had sat for him.

From one point of view, then, it might be said that she had a strong face, by which I would mean that it would make an indelible impression upon the mind that observed her closely. There is a psychological reason for this, which I must ask you to look at with me if you wish to know Agnes. One dead face differs from another merely in the outlines of form. A living face differs from all others, and is different itself in varying moods, because there is something within the form which animates it. This is intellect. Some are poor in this, while others are richly endowed. The greater the intellect, the more distinctively individual will be the face, and it is this individuality which marks the features, differentiating the countenance from all others about it, so that it leaves a deeper impression upon the brain, just as a loud noise is heard, or a bright flash seen, the more intensely.

Agnes's pre-eminent characteristic was her intellectuality. She absorbed books, as a sponge does water, without apparent effort, and as a sponge may be squeezed and made to yield up nearly as much as it had drawn in, so Agnes, if catechised, would show that she had a permanent grasp on what she had studied. She developed a fondness for the classics, and for law, which delighted her father, and as her mother died when she was nearing her fifteenth year, they grew to be very close companions. The father, deprived of the support and encouragement always afforded by a true and well-beloved wife, gradually leaned more and more upon his daughter, who showed herself so worthy of affiliating with him mentally. It was therefore not very long before her services became indispensable to him in finding references in his law library, and in many ways connected with his profession.

Of two other things in connection with Agnes I must speak. Physically she was the perfection of ideal womanhood. She was strong in limb and body, yet possessed all the grace of contour essential to the feminine scheme of beauty. She had never been corseted in her life, and yet her figure was superb, being well rounded and full, yet so supple that every muscle was obedient to her will. She could ride a horse, leap a fence, swim, fish, and row a boat as well and untiringly as a man, yet in nothing was she masculine. She had cultivated all of those physical possibilities of her body, which it should be the privilege of all women to do, without transgressing some rule of society which has been fashioned to protect the weaker specimens of the sex, rather than to develop the dormant energies of womankind. It was her constant boast that neither rain nor sun, nor any untoward freak of the elements, could deter her from pursuing a pre-arranged purpose. She never "caught cold." In truth she had never been ill one whole day since her birth.

The other matter may seem a slight one, as I describe it, but were you to meet the girl, you would notice it very quickly. I allude to her manner of speech. We all of us, when writing, are careful in forming our sentences. We spell all words in full, avoiding abbreviations. But note well the speech of even the most liberally educated and carefully nurtured, and what do we discover? That our English is sadly defective, not merely in grammatical construction, but, more particularly, in pronunciation, and in enunciation. We slur many letters, and merge many words, the one into the other. We are so pressed for time that we cannot pause to breathe between words; our sentences have no commas, and sometimes not even periods, that can be recognized as such. In our hurry we use abbreviations whenever possible. We say "don't," "won't," "can't," and many others that we "shouldn't."

Agnes never did this. Her language was always as correct, her pronunciation as perfect, and her enunciation as distinct, as though she were constantly studying to be a purist. You say that she must have been affected! But you are wrong. Not for an instant did she make such an impression upon any one. In this, as in all things, she was merely her natural self. It was a charm to the ear to hear her in conversation. Her voice was so musical, and her intonation so pleasant. I remember how attractive to me it was to listen to her as she would say "I shall let you, etc." pronouncing the "t" and the "y" without effort and yet each distinctly. How much prettier than the "let chou" which so commonly assails the ear! Ah! You are saying that you do not so merge words; but be honest, and observe when next you essay such a phrase.

It was by the merest chance that the Judge and Agnes called on the very day of Leon's arrival. They were en route for the race-track, and passing near the Doctor's home, the Judge turned his horses in the direction of his friend's house to inquire when he was expected to return. He was delighted to meet him.

Greetings having been exchanged they began a general conversation.

"What have you been doing up in the country, Doctor?" asked the Judge.

"Fishing, I suppose?"

"You might say," answered Dr. Medjora, "that I have been a fisher of men. I brought one back with me, you see." He indicated Leon by a wave of his hand. The Judge glanced at the youth, and awaited a further explanation.

"Leon and I are old friends," continued the Doctor. "I met him first when he needed my services to help him with a broken leg. But I have accepted his assistance many times since, when, without him, I might never have found my way back to civilization from the jungles into which I had strayed. For the future I need him so much that I have brought him home with me, to remain permanently."

"Indeed!" said the Judge, much interested, for if Leon were to be always with his friend, it was of more than passing moment to himself. "In what way do you need him?"

"Judge, as you know, my good wife here has not given me the son that I have longed for." Madame scowled, enraged by the speech which however had not been meant to wound her. The Doctor had not thought of her at all, but merely mentioned what was a fact. "Therefore I have no heir. I do not mean in connection with my worldly goods. I speak of my profession. I wish a student to whom I may impart my methods, so that after my day has passed my people may still have some one to depend upon. You see, I look upon my practice, much as a shepherd would consider his sheep. I am responsible for them. They depend upon me to keep them out of danger. I consider it a duty to supply a successor to myself."

"And this young gentleman is to be he?" asked the Judge.

"Leon is my choice before all whom I have known. Above all others I have decided that he is the most worthy of the trust that I shall impose in him." The Doctor spoke feelingly.

"Young man," said the Judge, addressing Leon, "I hope you appreciate the rare opportunity offered to you by my friend. If you are really capable of becoming his successor, then you are destined to be a power in the community, as he is to-day."

"Judge Dudley," said Leon, "I know that I am most fortunate. Dr. Medjora has taken me from beggary, and placed before me a future which would tempt any young man. But, to me, it means more than a salvation from drudgery; it means more than a high-road to fortune. I feel that I am destined to realize the hopes of my life, the yearnings of all my past days. I shall have a chance to acquire learning, to cultivate my intellect, to gain knowledge, which in my mind is the supremest power."

The Judge was somewhat surprised to hear such words from a country lad, still habited in clothing more suited to a farmer than to one with such aspirations. He said: "Young man, you interest me. Evidently you have learned to think for yourself. Come, tell me! Why do you lay such store by knowledge, when the rest of mankind are crying for money?"

"Money! Money! Money!" repeated Leon with a contemptuous curl of the lip. "Judge Dudley, I am nearing my majority, and I can say, that in all my life I do not think that I have owned more than fifty dollars. My food, clothing, and a home, have been provided for me, but aside from that I have not spent more than the sum named, and most of that went for books. So, you see, one may live without wealth, if enough to cover actual necessities be his. Without knowledge, a man would be an idiot. I think that is a logical proposition. If you grant that, then the less knowledge one has, the nearer he must be to the imbecile, and the more he acquires, the closer he approaches the highest stage of existence. Money we leave behind us at death. Knowledge, on the contrary, not only goes with us, but is really the only guarantee the individual has of a continuance of existence beyond the grave."

The Judge became more and more interested, and Dr. Medjora, observing the good impression which his protégé was making, was content to remain silent and listen.

"Your last statement indicates that you have formulated some mode of reasoning, upon which to base your convictions," said the Judge. "Will you take us a little further into your doctrine?"

"I am afraid that my ideas are rather crude, sir. I have had access to few standard works, and have been compelled to think out things for myself. But if I do not bore you, I shall be only too willing to continue. Indeed, it is a great treat to me, to speak with some one who may contradict me where I fall into error."

"You are a modest young man, Mr. Grath. Please continue. You were saying that one's knowledge might assure him a life hereafter."

"So I believe. Of course it is almost impossible, if not quite so, to prove anything in connection with the great future. But it is the prerogative of man to reason upon all subjects, and it is eminently fitting that he should study that one which most nearly affects himself. In the absence of absolute proof, I claim that one may adopt any theory that appeals to him as reasonable and probable. Now in relation to knowledge. I say it is more important to amass knowledge than to hoard up wealth. Money belongs to the material plane, and, having no relation to any other, it is as perishable, as far as it affects one individual, as is the human body. Money buys luxuries and comforts for the body only. It can add nothing to intellectual attainment. You may say that with it one may purchase books with which to improve the mind. That is true, but does not invalidate my argument, for it is not the book which is pabulum to our intellect, but only the thoughts which have been recorded upon its pages. Money procures us the possession of the book, whereas if we borrow it, and return it again, in the interval we may receive all the mental benefit which it can bestow upon the owner. Knowledge, on the other hand, is immaterial. It is an attribute of what has been called the soul. It is potent while being invisible, and though invisible it has a market value as well as things material. All the wealth of the world may not suffice to make one man wise, while all the wisdom in the world would surely make its possessor wealthy, but for the fact that he would probably be too wise to wish for riches. If, then, knowledge is such a potent factor in the world's affairs, can it be that it ceases to exist when a man dies? It is reasonable to suppose that it does not: then what becomes of it? The man cannot leave it to his heirs, as he does his chattels. Therefore it must continue where it has always been, and that is within the mind, which must have a continuance of existence to retain its knowledge."

"Ah! Very good! But Dr. Medjora has just announced that he is preparing to bequeath his knowledge to you, who are to be his heir in that respect. How do you make that conform to your curious theory?

"You misapprehend the true condition. Dr. Medjora does not purpose giving me his knowledge, as one gives money, thereby lessening his own store. He merely intends to cultivate my own intellect, training it in grooves parallel with those which he himself has followed. He might live until I know as much as he does now, yet he would be no less wise than he is. Rather, he would have grown wiser himself in having acquired the experience of teaching another."

"You should study law instead of medicine. If you grow tired of the

Doctor, you must come to me. Only, let me ask you one more question.

If, according to your tenets, the wisest man is most certain of a future life, what of the most idiotic?"

"He is most apt to meet with annihilation. But he would cease to exist, only as to his individuality. I have not thought very deeply in that direction, but as my mind cannot conceive of the actual annihilation of anything that is existent, I have surmised that perhaps the minds of many idiots may become coalescent, so that a new individual might he created, who would possess sufficient intellectuality at birth in the world, to realize the importance to himself of mental cultivation."

"Ha! Ha! Doctor," said the Judge, laughing. "If two idiots may eventually be rolled into one, there is some hope for you and me. We may be joined together in the next world, and what a fellow we would be on our next trip to this old-fashioned planet! But seriously, Mr. Grath, your theories interest me. We will talk together again. You must come to our house some day. But I have not time for theology now. My daughter has a little bet on the first race, and if I delay longer she will miss seeing it. She has been making impatient signs to me for some time."

"Father!" exclaimed Agnes, deprecatingly; then turning to Leon, she continued: "Mr. Grath, you must not lay too much stress upon what my father says, when he is not upon the bench. When acting in his official capacity, his word is law, but at other times – "

"My daughter's is," interrupted the Judge, with a good-humored laugh.

"At other times," Agnes resumed, "he often prevaricates. He is constantly endeavoring to impress people with the idea that I am only a child, and not capable of comprehending serious conversation. Let me assure you that I have been highly entertained and edified by what you have been saying."

Leon bowed gravely without a suspicion of a blush, or embarrassment of manner, at thus receiving a compliment for the first time in his life from the lips of beauty. He was very self-reliant, though never obtrusively so. What he said was very simple.

"That you have been pleased to listen to me with attention, was sufficient proof to me, Miss Dudley, that at least I was not trying your patience too far by my speech."

"Come, Agnes, or we will miss that race, and whether you care or not,

I confess that I do."

Then adieux were made and Dr. Medjora accompanied his guests to the door, where he paused a moment to say a word to the Judge, Leon having remained behind.

"What do you think of the lad?" he asked.

"A promising pupil, Medjora," replied the Judge. "He has brains, an uncommon endowment in these days. He is worth training. Do your best with him."

"I will!" answered the Doctor.

As the carriage bore the Judge and Agnes towards the race-track, the former asked his daughter this question.

"Agnes, what do you think of Mr. Grath?"

"He is bright," she replied, "but what he was saying impressed me from the fact that he seems to have convinced himself of the correctness of his theories, rather than from any argument which he offered, which would satisfy another's mind. Nearly all of it I have read."

When the Doctor returned to the room, he found Leon looking at a book on the table, whereas he had expected to see him at the window watching the departing girl. Therefore he asked:

"What do you think of Miss Dudley?"

"Miss Dudley?" repeated Leon. "Oh! She has a face which one would not easily forget. I met her once, some years ago, but only for a few minutes. Long enough only to answer some question which she asked, yet also long enough to impress her face upon my recollection indelibly. But I suppose you mean the girl herself, and all I can say is, that I should never form an opinion after an interview so brief. I would add, however, that she seems to be intellectually superior to her sex."

He spoke entirely dispassionately, and Dr. Medjora said no more.

Madame Medjora had quietly left the room while Leon was expounding his views to the Judge.

During the afternoon, the Doctor took Leon down into the city, to show him about, and more especially to have proper clothing prepared for him. They returned to the Villa Medjora, as Madame called their home, just in time to hear the voice of the Doctor's wife raised in anger. She was enraged because the butler had opened a box and released Lossy.

"It is bad enough to have the beggar boy thrust upon me," she had exclaimed. "I will not tolerate the nuisance of having a pest like this about the premises. Put him back in his box, and take him away from here instantly. Do you hear?"

The butler heard, but did not heed. He had learned that the Doctor was the master, and having received explicit orders in relation to the dog, he proceeded to put them into effect, despite the protests of Madame. Thus Lossy was bathed, combed, dried, and fed, Madame watching the performance from a window, and continuing her violent tirade, becoming more and more angered as she realized the impotency of her wrath.

As the Doctor and his protégé entered the grounds, Lossy bounded along the walk, barking delightedly at the sight of his master. For one moment the lad's cup of happiness was full, but in the next a dread entered his heart. He distinctly heard Madame say:

"I'll poison that beast!" With which she closed the window and disappeared. Leon looked appealingly at the Doctor, whose brows were knit together in an ominous frown.

"Do not be alarmed, Leon," said he, "I will guarantee that Madame will not carry her threat into execution. She is a woman of hasty temper, and often speaks without reflection. She is annoyed because the dog has come, but when she learns that he will not disturb her in any way, her resentment will pass. Lossy is safe. Let your mind rest easy on that point." He placed his hand upon Leon's shoulder and looked at him with reassuring kindliness. Leon felt slightly relieved, but when he retired to rest that night, in the room allotted to him, he secretly carried Lossy with him, and the dog slept at the foot of his master's bed.