So November goes out; and winter, boisterous and triumphant, comes in.
* * * * *
Sunday morning: cold and clear. The December sun shines upon the glassy
turf, and upon trees all clad in armor of glittering ice. And the trees
creak and rattle in the north wind; and the icy splinters fall tinkling
to the ground.
The splendor of the morning gilds the Judge's estate. Everything about
the mansion smiles and sparkles. Were last night's horrors a dream?
There was danger, we remember, that the foolish youth might do a very
inconsiderate and shocking thing, and perhaps ruin the Judge. What if he
had really deposited his mortal remains at the gate of that worthy
man,--to be found there, ghastly and stiff, a revolting spectacle, this
bright morning? What a commentary on Gingerford philanthropy! For of
course some one would at once have stepped forward to testify to having
seen him driven from the door, which he came back to lay his bones near.
And Stephen would have been on hand to remember directing such a person,
inquiring his way a second time to the Judge's house.
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