“I am very sorry for you, sir,” I answered most respectfully, not meaning to trespass on his grief, yet wondering at his mother’s age; for he seemed to be at least threescore; “but I am no court-gallant, sir; I am only a farmer’s son, and learning how to farm a little.”

“Enough, John; quite enough,” he cried, “I can read it in thy countenance.  Honesty is written there, and courage and simplicity.  But I fear that, in this town of London, thou art apt to be taken in by people of no principle.  Ah me!  Ah me!  The world is bad, and I am too old to improve it.”

Then finding him so good and kind, and anxious to improve the age, I told him almost everything; how much I paid the fellmonger, and all the things I had been to see; and how I longed to get away, before the corn was ripening; yet how (despite of these desires) I felt myself bound to walk up and down, being under a thing called “recognisance.”  In short, I told him everything; except the nature of my summons (which I had no right to tell), and that I was out of money.

My tale was told in a little archway, apart from other lawyers; and the other lawyers seemed to me to shift themselves, and to look askew, like sheep through a hurdle, when the rest are feeding.

“What!  Good God!” my lawyer cried, smiting his breast indignantly with a roll of something learned; “in what country do we live?  Under what laws are we governed?  No case before the court whatever; no primary deposition, so far as we are furnished; not even a King’s writ issued—­and here we have a fine young man dragged from his home and adoring mother, during the height of agriculture, at his own cost and charges!  I have heard of many grievances; but this the very worst of all.  Nothing short of a Royal Commission could be warranty for it.  This is not only illegal, sir, but most gravely unconstitutional.”

“I had not told you, worthy sir,” I answered him, in a lower tone, “if I could have thought that your sense of right would be moved so painfully.  But now I must beg to leave you, sir—­for I see that the door again is open.  I beg you, worshipful sir, to accept—­”

Upon this he put forth his hand and said, “Nay, nay, my son, not two, not two:”  yet looking away, that he might not scare me.

“To accept, kind sir, my very best thanks, and most respectful remembrances.”  And with that, I laid my hand in his.  “And if, sir, any circumstances of business or of pleasure should bring you to our part of the world, I trust you will not forget that my mother and myself (if ever I get home again) will do our best to make you comfortable with our poor hospitality.”

With this I was hasting away from him, but he held my hand and looked round at me.  And he spoke without cordiality.

“Young man, a general invitation is no entry for my fee book.  I have spent a good hour of business-time in mastering thy case, and stating my opinion of it.  And being a member of the bar, called six-and-thirty years agone by the honourable society of the Inner Temple, my fee is at my own discretion; albeit an honorarium.  For the honour of the profession, and my position in it, I ought to charge thee at least five guineas, although I would have accepted one, offered with good will and delicacy.  Now I will enter it two, my son, and half a crown for my clerk’s fee.”