“There, now we’re coming to an elegant house that I want you to see; you’ll never forget it,” said John Hilton. “It’s where Judge Masterson lives, the great lawyer; the handsomest house in the county, everybody says.”

“Do you know him, father?” asked Susan Ellen.

“I do,” answered John Hilton, proudly. “Him and my mother went to school together in their young days, and were always called the two best scholars of their time. The judge called to see her once; he stopped to our house to see her when I was a boy. An’ then, some years ago—you’ve heard me tell how I was on the jury, an’ when he heard my name spoken he looked at me sharp, and asked if I wa’n’t the son of Catharine Winn, an’ spoke most beautiful of your grandmother, an’ how well he remembered their young days together.”

“I like to hear about that,” said Katy.

“She had it pretty hard, I’m afraid, up on the old farm. She was keepin’ school in our district when father married her—that’s the main reason I backed ’em down when they wanted to tear the old schoolhouse all to pieces,” confided John Hilton, turning eagerly. “They all say she lived longer up here on the hill than she could anywhere, but she never had her health. I wa’n’t but a boy when she died. Father an’ me lived alone afterward till the time your mother come; ’twas a good while, too; I wa’n’t married so young as some. ’T was lonesome, I tell you; father was plumb discouraged losin’ of his wife, an’ her long sickness an’ all set him back, an’ we’d work all day on the land an’ never say a word. I s’pose ’tis bein’ so lonesome early in life that makes me so pleased to have some nice girls growin’ up around me now.”

There was a tone in her father’s voice that drew Katy’s heart toward him with new affection. She dimly understood, but Susan Ellen was less interested. They had often heard this story before, but to one child it was always new and to the other old. Susan Ellen was apt to think it tiresome to hear about her grandmother, who, being dead, was hardly worth talking about.

“There’s Judge Masterson’s place,” said their father in an everyday manner, as they turned a corner, and came into full view of the beautiful old white house standing behind its green trees and terraces and lawns. The children had never imagined anything so stately and fine, and even Susan Ellen exclaimed with pleasure. At that moment they saw an old gentleman, who carried himself with great dignity, coming slowly down the wide, box-bordered path toward the gate.

“There he is now, there’s the judge!” whispered John Hilton, excitedly, reining his horse quickly to the green roadside. “He’s goin’ downtown to his office; we can wait right here an’ see him. I can’t expect him to remember me; it’s been a good many years. Now you are goin’ to see the great Judge Masterson!”

There was a quiver of expectation in their hearts. The judge stopped at his gate, hesitating a moment before he lifted the latch, and glanced up the street at the country wagon with its two prim little girls on the back seat, and the eager man who drove. They seemed to be waiting for something; the old horse was nibbling at the fresh roadside grass. The judge was used to being looked at with interest, and responded now with a smile as he came out to the sidewalk, and unexpectedly turned their way. Then he suddenly lifted his hat with grave politeness, and came directly toward them.

“Good morning, Mr. Hilton,” he said. “I am very glad to see you, sir,” and Mr. Hilton, the little girls’ own father, took off his hat with equal courtesy, and bent forward to shake hands.

Susan Ellen cowered and wished herself away, but little Katy sat straighter than ever, with joy in her father’s pride and pleasure shining in her pale, flower-like little face.

“These are your daughters, I am sure,” said the old gentleman, kindly, taking Susan Ellen’s limp and reluctant hand; but when he looked at Katy, his face brightened. “How she recalls your mother!” he said with great feeling. “I am glad to see this dear child. You must come to see me with your father, my