A few days later the Judge stood at the foot of the staircase leading up to the children’s rooms and inwardly wondered.

Bethany was kneeling down on the top step. “O, Lord, forgive me for what I am about to do,” she prayed, piously; then she unclasped her hands and took in them a crumpled handkerchief.

The Judge still stared. She had her dress pinned up, a towel fastened round her waist, sleeves rolled back, and beside her on the step a little tin can and a cake of Hittaker’s soap.

What was she going to do? and the Judge waited.

She was washing down the steps, and as she washed she softly sang to herself a homemade ditty:

“She is cleaning the steps,” said the Judge to himself, “and is enjoying it. Mrs. Blodgett has probably gone downtown, and after asking the Lord to forgive her she has yielded to temptation. It would be a shame to interrupt, seeing she enjoys it so much,” and with a broad smile on his face he sat down on the lowest step and waited.

As Bethany was coming down backward she did not see him until her hand, going out sideways, deposited the tin pail on his knees.

“O!” she exclaimed, and giving a great start she straightened herself.

There were beads of perspiration on her forehead and upper lip, and her cheeks were flushed.

“There!” she said at last, and she gazed composedly at the Judge, “I knew Satan would catch me.”

“Thank you,” he replied, quietly.

“O, Daddy Grandpa,” she cried, repentantly, “you don’t think I meant you—”

“What are you doing?” he asked, disregarding her question.

“Well,” she said, wearily, “I saw a little dust on these steps at lunch time, and I’ve been just crazy to wash them, just crazy.”

“What have you been doing it with?” he inquired.

She uncurled her hand, and showed the wet, crumpled handkerchief. “It’s a very old one,” she said, anxiously, “quite full of holes. I hadn’t any cloth to dry the steps, so I just blew softly as I sang—I s’pose I’ve got to be punished,” she said, miserably.

“Let me see first how you have done them,” said the Judge, trying to speak sternly, and getting up he walked to the top of the staircase.

The child had done her work thoroughly. There was not a particle of dust to be seen. Every square inch not covered by carpet had been carefully cleaned.

“Well,” he said, as he slowly came downstairs, “for punishment I order you to wash them down each day until further orders.”

She gave him a roguish smile. “Now, Daddy Grandpa, you know that is no punishment. You are just pretending.”

“Well,” he went on, “as that would be no punishment, I order you for work, or play, or whatever you call it, to wash these steps down once a week, and for penalty you will not be allowed to go for a drive with me for three days.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Three days, Daddy Grandpa—not two, not one?”

“No, three,” he said, decidedly, “three whole days.”

She wiped her eyes with the towel about her waist. “The time will seem long, but I deserve it. I was very bad. Mrs. Blodgett has gone shopping, and I thought that you were asleep, and Satan tempted me. I thought he was laying a trap, but I gave in to him.”

“Bethany,” said the Judge, kindly, “you were wrong to do what was forbidden, but since you enjoy a little housework I will get Mrs. Blodgett to relax that rule, and give you some easy things to do.”

“Daddy Grandpa,” she said, seizing one of his large white hands and pressing it to her lips, “if you had wings you’d be an angel.”

He smiled amiably, and went to get ready for his drive.

“O, little pail,” said Bethany, seizing the tin, “O, little pail, I am glad he did not take you from me. I was afraid that would be my punishment.”

“What are you talking about up there?” inquired the Judge from the hall below, where he was putting on his coat.

Bethany took a few steps forward and put her head over the balusters.

“I was just telling Bobby that I am glad you did not take him from me.”

“And who is Bobby?”

“Bobby is one of the little pails we used to get our butter in. You know that poor people do not eat the kind of butter that you do, Daddy Grandpa. Ours was whiter, and it did not taste like Cloverdale butter. When we went to the grocer’s I always said we were going to buy a Bobby of butter.”

The Judge made no remark, but he wrinkled his forehead as he went to the hall door.

“A fowl in the pot for every man on Sunday,” a good French king is reported to have said, and “Cloverdale butter for every citizen in Riverport,” the good Judge wished in his heart.

He had a lonely drive. How much he enjoyed having the little prattler by his side! for Bethany talked a good deal when she was out with him. There were so many objects of interest to inquire about, and having perfect confidence in him she never failed to extend her fund of knowledge when with him. Poor little gropers after truth! How much the children had to learn! How many questions they must ask of the, to them, omniscient grown-up ones, before they were sufficiently equipped for the battle of life!

On the second day of Bethany’s punishment the Judge, as he was going down to the sleigh, met Dallas on the front steps.

“It is a beautiful day,” he said; “don’t you want to come for a drive?”

A flush of pleasure crept over the boy’s face.

“Yes, sir, very much; will you be good enough to wait till I put these books in the house?”

The Judge nodded, and Dallas ran into the house.

“How is it that you carry books?” inquired the Judge when he came out. “I never see Titus with any.”

“He has a set at home and one in school,” said Dallas, quietly, as they got into the sleigh.

“And why have not you the same?”

“I thought, sir, that it was sufficient for you to buy me one set. I carry mine.”

The Judge was touched by this mark of the boy’s thoughtfulness, and for a few minutes he said nothing. Then he turned round. “Buy another lot—have just what Titus has.”

Dallas gave him a peculiar glance. It certainly was not an ungrateful one.

The Judge gazed at him more steadfastly. How well the boy looked in his heavy black coat and dark fur cap! He was stouter, too, than when he came. Already good living and freedom from care were beginning to show a favorable influence upon him. But what about the soul? And the Judge peered more earnestly than ever at him. A good outside was a fine thing, but the inner things of the heart were what counted, and the elderly man made up his mind to ask a few questions. However, at first he learned all he could from the exterior.

The boy sat beside him very quietly, but his face was proud. “Now that I think of it,” reflected the Judge, “this is his first appearance in public with me. This doffing of hats and bowing from well dressed people flatters his boyish vanity.”

“Dallas,” he said, aloud, “would you like to be popular?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, with a smile.

“And rich?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe that riches bring happiness?”

“No, sir.”

“What do you want to be in life? Have you chosen a calling—a profession?”

The boy gave him a hesitating glance, and the Judge delicately changed his question. “Have you ever thought of being an actor, as your father was?”

The boy shuddered. “O, no, no!”

“Why not? Don’t you approve of the profession?”

Dallas hesitated a minute, then he said, “It’s not bad for those who get on; it’s awful for those who don’t.”

“Would you put your father in the latter class?”

“Yes, sir, but in this way only. He had poor health. If he had been strong he would have made his mark. He had brains and application enough to succeed. With his last breath he begged me not to follow his profession. Even if I wished to do so, that would keep me from it.”

The Judge made no comment, and presently Dallas went on: “I have been behind the scenes, sir. I suppose the public must have theaters, but they’re hard on girls and young men.”

“In what way?” asked the Judge, quietly.

“Well, sir,” said the boy, bitterly, “when a person goes on the stage his or her home goes to smash.”

The Judge made no reply, and Dallas went on with animation: “If I had my way, I’d have no army, no navy, no anything that took men out of their homes. I suppose you’ve always had a home, sir.”

The Judge smiled.

“Then you don’t know what it is to live in a boarding house—to share everything in common with people that you often despise. Why, sir, when I come home from school and go upstairs to that little sitting room where Titus and I study, and shut the door, and feel that it is ours, I am in paradise.”

“But you have to come downstairs and eat and drink with the family,” said the Judge, in amusement.

“Ah!” said the boy, with his handsome face aglow, “but you are my own people now. I like to be with you.”

“Dallas,” said the Judge, abruptly, “tell me what you would like to be when you become a man.”

The boy grew somewhat less animated. “You won’t be vexed with me for being too ambitious?” he said, hesitatingly.

“Not unless you aspire to the Presidency.”

“Sir, I do not aspire to that, but I do wish to be a doctor.”

“Ah! to study medicine—you are fond of your books. I see that.”

“The only thing that troubles me,” continued Dallas, with some embarrassment, “is that one’s studies are long and expensive. I feel that I ought to choose something like a clerkship, so I should not be so long a burden on you.”

“You shall be a doctor,” said the Judge, promptly. “You have done well to speak your mind frankly and honestly. How old are you now?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Just two years older than Titus, though you are much taller. It is well for a boy to choose his vocation in life as early as possible. Then he can prepare for it. You know what Titus wishes to be?”

“Yes, sir—a farmer.”

“I can’t gainsay him. I believe in getting back to the soil. He wants a stock farm, and already I am beginning to get things in shape for him. Roblee,” and the Judge spoke to the coachman, “drive out toward Cloverdale.”

“I have bought a hundred and fifty acres of land,” the Judge continued, “and have a young man in charge. We have not time to go all the way there to-day, but you will see in what direction it is. Have you been out this way before?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you not been driving at all since you came to Riverport?”

“No, sir.”

“How is that?”

“Well, Titus does not care for driving, as you know, and I did not care to ask.”

“But you like it?”

“Indeed I do,” he said, earnestly.

“Then you must often come with me and Bethany. Poor little soul, she is doing penance to-day.”

“Yes, I saw her going for a walk with Jennie, with a very downcast face,” said Dallas with a slight smile. Then he fell into a reverie.

What a happy boy he was! What good fortune had been his when he fell into the hands of this kind, agreeable, yet strong man! How much he admired him! and he stole a glance at the Judge’s quiet face.

They were gliding along over a country road now. How comfortable they were in their luxurious fur-lined seat, with warm robes over them, and their feet on the Judge’s long foot-warmer! The sleigh was an open one, and on each side of them, and before and behind, they had an uninterrupted view of a beautiful, snow-covered country.

Occasionally they met a farmer jogging along on his wood-sled, or going swiftly in a single-seated sleigh behind a substantial, heavy-footed country horse. There were also a few sleighs from the city.

Everybody knew the Judge, and if a lady bowed to him Dallas, in suppressed delight, also saluted her by touching his fur cap. How he enjoyed recognition! When he was a man he would wish for no better enjoyment than this—to drive along the street and have everyone greet him with respect. But he must work hard for it at first, and he cast a side glance at the Judge’s white head. Charlie Brown had told him that the Judge as a young man had worked like a slave to master the intricacies of commercial law, bankruptcy law, international law, criminal law, and many other kinds of law that Dallas could not remember. He would work, too, and he set his young mouth firmly and looked straight ahead.

The Judge was murmuring, “God made the country and man made the town”; then he said aloud, “Just look at the sun behind that grove of spruces, Dallas.”

“Beautiful!” said the boy, and then the Judge, taking out his watch, said regretfully, “We must turn. Home, Roblee.”

They scarcely spoke until they reached Grand Avenue. When they were slipping past the fine houses that bordered it Dallas turned to the Judge. “I thank you, sir, for this drive. I have enjoyed it immensely.”

The Judge’s keen eyes sought his face. “My boy,” he said, kindly, and he stretched out one of his fur-clad hands and laid it on Dallas’s knee, “you must often accompany me and the little girl on our daily drives.”

The Judge’s benevolent face was luminous in the setting sun. He was proving himself to be a real father to the boy. Something choked in Dallas’s throat. He bent his head lower, lower, till a sudden ecstasy made him seize the Judge’s hand and press it warmly in his own.

“Just look at that new boy of the Judge’s,” exclaimed Charlie Brown’s mother as she stood at one of the upper windows of the house, staring at the Judge in adoration. “What is it about that man that makes everyone like him?”

“Good temper,” growled her rather short-tempered spouse, who was sitting near her, his head buried in a newspaper.

Dallas’s first drive with the Judge was on the first day of Bethany’s punishment; his second one was on the second day of retribution, and his third was on the day rendered ever memorable to the Judge by the fulfillment of one of his worst fears. He wished, but too late, that Bethany had had no punishment, that he had forgiven the sin of step-washing, and had taken her with himself and Dallas.