The sudden abandonment of the Terence O'Brien crusade by Minga and Dunstan cast a chill over the other plotters and a sort of obstinate silence settled down on the young intruders on Watts Shipman's privacy. One of the boys got up, put his hands in his pockets and walked aimlessly about, kicking at pebbles and whistling; the girls' voices took on drawling inflections of careless indifference. The young lawyer tried some professional small talk that sounded oddly in the poetic surroundings of forest moonlight to which the senior listened without much interest. Shipman, with an amused sense of liking to see these calm young persons at a disadvantage, wondered if they would not under the awkward stress of the thing develop a few sensibilities, but he allowed the moment to remain as clumsy as it might be.

The only one who realized the man's inner comment was Sard; she it was who had fretted helplessly at the inopportune behavior of her girl friend; nettled, she now resolved that the meeting should be opened and she moved a little on the log where she sat.

Watts rose and gravely motioned her to take his abandoned seat. "You see the river better from there," he urged. "Rather nice in the moonlight, don't you think? You know Drake's 'Culprit Fay'? Of course, such a delicate poem, made of shells and straws and fairies' wings with this monster stream for background"—he shrugged, scanning the girl's face, saying lightly,—"Do you suppose all this beauty really got through the Dutchman's skin, or did it lie dormant till Irving brought it to life? A pity, after those 'historic fires of liberty,' and a young woman's college adorning it, and all the tremendous striking events of its history, that this river's chief ornaments should be a prison, a military academy and a lot of rich men's homes! Have you ever thought," went on Shipman purposefully, "what a marvelous thing it would be if we could have heroic statuary all along our river banks, really heroic statuary, sculpture of the great deeds of discovery, the statues of men who invented things for human good, great inventors, great mothers, great scientists, great writers, great explorers; not a single statue that should spell wars or the glory of wars, but all the superb names that bear witness to the everlasting wonder and glory and forward looking of Human Life."

Of course, this exhortation was to put her at her ease. The girl recognized this, and while she hardly heard the words of the man standing there, she thanked him mentally. As Sard met Shipman's eyes she tried to look as if she, at least, had completely forgotten the Minga incident. Anyway, Sard had seen things like that happen to Minga before. Only, in all those two years at college, reflected the girl, Minga had never been so completely, so lamentably driven from her accustomed aplomb. The thing did not make Sard like the great man any too well, but the memory of the figure of poor Dora at her work, the sense of a boy of Dunce's age going to prison "for life," these things spurred her on to what she had to say.

"Perhaps we ought to apologize for coming up here like this," began the girl tentatively, "but," she laughed a little, "I don't think we will."

"I cannot imagine your having ever to apologize." Watts' eyes were upon her, the expression in them very different from that with which he had subdued Minga. He looked a sort of wondering admiration, as a man may at the young face and figure so exquisitely balanced in so complete a dignity. To Watts' keen knowledge of human personality, Sard spelled clarity, essential purity; but it was not ignorant purity nor insulated clarity. It was the healthy nerve and sparkle of an original daring nature, something direct and vigorous that went straight to its interests and issues in a direct, fresh way, that looked things in the face and tackled them in front.

"We,"—Sard looked around at her rather ineffectual supporters,—"we believe that you can help us about something—someone—Terence O'Brien," the girl blurted it out to the famous lawyer with a little catch of the breath. Her voice, naturally liquid, was a little husky, but she held herself admirably.

"The man who is held for murder?" the lawyer's voice was grave.

"The boy,"—with ever so slight an insistence on "the boy,"—"who killed that old cobbler." Sard glanced eagerly into Watts' face. "We have been talking about it, all of us, a great deal; all Willow Roads is excited over it because he is so young." The girl hesitated a moment, then she said simply, "I haven't been able to discuss it with my father but——" Sard paused; something she had not reckoned with of embarrassment seemed to thicken her throat, but she plunged bravely on. "Life sentence is what everyone thinks he will get, life sentence." Her hand went out with a curious despairing little gesture that Watts noted with concern. She turned on him dark eyes, womanly, tragic. "Life! Have we—has anyone the right to take from anyone so young the chance to try again?"

The lawyer instinctively admired the girl for her directness, and he met her with equal directness. "No," he said, "we haven't, no one has, under any circumstances, the right to take life but in such cases we choose a lesser evil instead of a perfect good. Here the problem is that this boy, for a small amount of money, wantonly killed an old man, who had befriended him, trusted him; 'murder,'" said Watts emphatically, "is on his soul—do you think he would have strength to live again?"

It was stated very simply, but with such unadorned clearness that Sard shivered. Shipman, without speaking, got up and went into the house, presently emerging with some light steamer rugs and Italian blankets, one of which he drew around Sard's shoulders. He motioned in a big brotherly way to the somewhat subdued girls of the party, "I'm afraid you're all cold. Shall we go in? Haven't you sweaters or something?"

But something stiff in this little party made them refuse to enter the house; it might almost have been that this strange man who lived in the organ builder's house had so impressed them by a sense of inherent personal power that they felt actually safer outdoors. Anyway, Minga, the little scarlet leader of all their pranks and escapades, their rather elaborately planned defiances and simulated viciousness, had been shamed by this man. Sard, it seemed, also remembered it; however, she did not refuse the Italian blanket, though she let it slip to her knees. The lawyer noted this, and the corners of his mouth moved slightly.

He turned to the younger practitioner of his profession. "It is an ugly case," he remarked gravely. "The way it was done," he made a gesture of disgust, "the boy must have something essentially sneaky and cold in him. There are natures like that," he turned to Sard, "natures that you could hardly, with all your imagination, realize or comprehend."

So the group sat in the moonlight discussing the thing. One by one the lawyer drew the young philanthropists out. Under the rather marked paucity of expression he found the same impulse, the broad human wish to give this boy, caught like a fly in the net of the law, "another chance." Watts quietly relaxed, sat there in the moonlight, studying the sober young faces. Finally he spoke the thing that had first of all come into his mind.

"Perhaps I ought not to ask this," turning to Sard, "but your father, in this county, is the Law and Prophets. The country people dote on his judgments; they trust him; somehow I should think no lawyer would influence his decision, no jury's verdict interfere with his sentence. He, I should think in talking with you, would be able to make you feel the essential inevitability of the thing."

There was silence as the group faced him, such deep solemnity on the young faces that Shipman all but laughed; the lawyer, accustomed as he was to studying all phases of human conduct, found himself amazed at the unanimity of serious purposes underlying this group that he knew to be the most unruly, unpromising of all unpromising small-town groups.

"Judge Bogart is an infallible man," he repeated softly. "His suggestions——" It was evident that the lawyer expected a "suggestion" from Judge Bogart's daughter.

But it was as if Sard had hardly heard him. At last: "My father prefers not to discuss these things with us." The girl said it very quietly and there was no hint of criticism of her father, but she went on thoughtfully, "Perhaps, though, he belongs to something that is becoming worn out," again she made the curious despairing little gesture, "mightn't it be possible that some day all these things will be changed, that there will be no more 'life sentences,' that we who come after will see the way to make things better, fairer?"

Shipman laughed a little ironically; he turned to the young lawyer. "How would Miss Bogart like it if she had to give the life sentences?" he asked lightly, but the girl had her answer ready and she gave it with a powerful conviction that arrested him.

"I should not want to live myself," she said in low, distinct tones. "I should not want to live if I thought we should always have to have crime in the world." Sard faced him a little defiantly; she was remembering the voice of poor Dora in the kitchen. "Is it justice," I ask you, "is it justice to take a young boy like that, take him for life, never give him another chance?"

Another of the group now spoke up. "Lots of men and women are at large who ought to be in prison."

Watts smiled. "Lots of boats do sink on the sea, but that is no reason why we should build our boats so that they will sink. Law, you see, is society's effort to protect its best from its worst." He looked interestedly at the young speaker. "You couldn't marry and have a home without law," curiously studying the boy.

"And I couldn't get a divorce without law, some kinds," grinned the cub. It was a technical retort, the typical "smart" answer of the up-to-date youngster. It gave his group courage; there were various asides among the members of the circle, a few titters and smothered witticisms.

Shipman rather enjoyed the little drama being enacted before him; he smoked imperturbably while he appeared to give this answer thought. "I suppose we ought to remember that the law that makes divorce possible rose first in the minds of men and women," he said evenly. "But we must ask ourselves how well those minds are instructed. In any case, I take it, the law, no matter how badly interpreted, is society's weapon against itself! New laws put upon paper and framed by act of Legislature or of Congress are to counteract certain old laws which were inadequate. When I insisted that your little friend extinguish her cigarette," the lawyer gravely searched the darkening faces in the moonlight, "it was merely to enforce a law which makes forest fires less probable. When I enact a law that separates a good woman from a bad man or vice versa, I protect the weaker against the stronger; when I support a law that insists that a boy's liberty be taken from him, after a dastardly murder, I make it possible for people to move about with varying degrees of safety from like murder. It is not my affair if these laws are not modified. It is for you and people like you to keep laws and by keeping them gain the power to make better ones."

The circle, a little daunted by his calm willingness to discuss, were disposed to receive this without comment. The little lawyer in the owl glasses kicked rather disconsolately at a bunch of turf, the other lads fidgeted. Somehow the crusade to intercede on behalf of Terence O'Brien had lost its moving-picture sensationalism. They realized that they had run up against a quiet man of steel and iron, who was more or less amused and not very impressed by them; there were murmurings and half-formed suggestions that they should leave until Sard, with a kind of resolution, rose suddenly from her seat and stood in front of Shipman. She looked directly into his face and he saw determination in her; the sort that does and dies, but does not abandon its object.

"I—I believe you are kind," said the girl, in a low questioning tone.

The man, a little surprised, waited gravely.

Sard spoke rather timidly. "I understand how you and other lawyers look at these things, by rote, sort of, isn't it? And you forget it is men and women you deal with; only 'cases' and knotty 'points,' isn't that true?"

Watts, rather piqued, bowed in answer.

"And I know," said Sard quickly—"it seems queer to ask it, but you, a man of your power, could influence a country jury, couldn't you, from your way of putting a thing, from your knowledge of how to speak to the point? Would you," the girl looked eagerly into the half-shadowed face, "would you be willing to appear for Terry's defense if—we—we paid you any fee you asked? I think we could get the money some way." The girl was clearly nervous now; her breath came a little quicker as she stood her ground, saying simply, helplessly, "Would you?"

Watts marveled at her. This man knew the way a person with a deep conviction always acted, and no one more solemnly respected conviction. It was the steady return to the subject in hand, the resolute persistence, in spite of every objection and obstacle, that won the great lawyer's respect and admiration. Suddenly a gleam came over his face and he rose, standing as Sard stood, answering her as simply. "You have interested me," he said quietly; "it is true that I am here for a season of rest, but if the trial comes off, as I think you said, in the early fall, I believe it will be held in your father's jurisdiction."

Sard nodded, her eyes fixed upon him.

The lawyer stood, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes on the ground, considering. Suddenly he looked up and addressed the wide-eyed circle. "I should ask one sort of fee only."

This consent of itself was so sudden, so unhoped for, that a thrill went around the group; someone in the circle fairly gasped. Casual, indulged, the young people had hardly tackled the question of a great lawyer's fee; the youngsters waited, jaws dropping to hear the spokesman's answer.

"From you," Shipman turned to Sard, "I should only ask coÖperation along lines which we will work out together; from you," turning to the little lawyer, "I must beg the privilege of an occasional conference."

The little owl-eyed bowed a solemn and somewhat puffed-up acknowledgment. But Shipman, with eyes enigmatic, turned upon the rest of the group, "I feel that to obtain a—er—certain solidarity, that my fee should come from all of you. Taxing each one of you a certain percentage per month would, of course, make a hole in your allowances——"

Instantly the curious derisive protest went up. The group had grown gradually less in awe of the great man. Now they openly rebelled while they were half agreed. Those whose murmurings were in earnest were smothered by their companions who bade them be "sports." At last someone stepped forward gracefully, offering his hand. It was the youth with the new blue car. Watts gripped his young paw with liking. The others then followed in rapid succession. "Good-bye, chocolate sundaes," said somebody with a groan. "Where do we get off, at the poorhouse?" asked another cub. "Farewell, my wrist-watch, good-bye, golf caddies; me for the lessening waistband," they giggled and shuffled and hooted their dismay, knowing well that what the man before them asked was no real hardship, yet making their reluctance very evident. Watts noted with wonder, however, that in this, as in everything else, they kept to their squad formation, one man having agreed, all agreed. Someone then suggested gruffly that it was time to depart. With awkward leave-taking and self-conscious thanks they finally took themselves away.

All but Sard, who hesitated in the lull occasioned by the departing group, again callow, vociferous, with a sense of restraint removed.

Shipman, an enigmatic expression on his face, turned to her and held out his hand. "Will you forgive me?"

The girl, wondering, hesitated, but Shipman, the fine cool hand once in his, did not let it go too quickly. "I have treated your friends pretty meanly," he said, "but I wanted to see if they really mean anything."

The girl returned his gaze; for the first time he saw challenge in the fine young eyes, and his own leaped to their full power.

"You saw?" asked Sard coolly.

Shipman threw back his head, but his laugh was not quite as assured as usual.

"You haven't forgiven me!" He pretended amusement.

"Perhaps," said the girl, a little bitterly, remembering his earlier remarks, "I have to protect society from you." The lawyer winced; his hand quickly relinquished hers and dropped to his side.

"You mean?" he said quickly; the man took a step forward, staring into her face—"I wonder what you do mean."

"Good-night," said Sard, her voice quivered a little, but she made the effort to be businesslike, "you will let me know what you can in connection with the case, with Terence," then a sudden little impulsive softening, "I do thank you. I know that you have been kind and patient with us." She motioned to the solemn-eyed one waiting at a little distance for her. "I must hurry. Good-night!"

They shook hands again, this time a something of liking between them, and Shipman watched the girl step confidently out of his wondering observation.

Car after car curved away down the steep road, young voice after young voice died on the midnight mountain echoes, but until very late indeed a man stood looking out upon the moonlit Hudson, and it seemed to Watts Shipman that the whole mountain said, that all the trees and rocks and stars and ripples said to each other one significant word and that word was "Youth."