the gleam of the current through the shag of young trees which found root in the unpromising soil.  Now and then the tall mast of a sailing-vessel glided by, now the smoke-stack of a steamer.  Often the quiet was broken by the panting breath of a tug.  Often into his field of vision flapped the wet clothes from the line strung along the deck of a canal-boat.  The canal ran along beside the regular current of the river, separated from it by a narrow tow-path.  Farther down, the great railroad bridge crossed the stream, and at all hours he could catch the swift glisten of the train-windows as they shot past.

Anderson’s office was about twelve by fourteen, and lined with shelves on two sides.  On these he had books, not law-books.  Those he had relegated to the library at home.  He had probably in the depths of his consciousness a sensation of melancholy at the contemplation of those reminders of his balked career.  No man, no matter how gracefully he may yield to it, cares to contemplate failures.  He had filled these shelves with books of which he was fond, for daily reading.  They were most of them old.  He had little money with which to purchase new ones.  He had been forced to rely upon those which his father and grandfather had accumulated.  There were, however, a few recent and quite valuable books which he had acquired since his venture in trade, upon entomology, especially books upon butterflies.  Since his retreat from the law he had developed suddenly, perhaps by the force of contrast, or the opposite swing of the pendulum, an overwhelming taste for those airy flowers of animated life.  The two walls of the office not occupied with books were hung with framed specimens.  He had also under the riverward window a little table equipped with the necessary paraphernalia for mounting them.  Many a sunny day in the season he spent in the fields on this gentle hunt.  There was a broad sill to the window, and upon it stood a box filled with green plants.  When the season was enough advanced and the window always open, the trailing vines rooted in the box hung far down outside, and the women on the passing canal-boats looked up at them.  The window-ledge was wide enough, moreover, for an old red cushion upon which slept in the sun when he was not afield for love or war or prey, a great cat striped like a tiger, with fierce green eyes, and a mighty purr of comfort, and a rounding back of affection for Anderson’s legs when he talked to him.

Anderson had two comfortable old chairs in his office, and a goodly assortment of pipes, for he was a great smoker.  He made tobacco a part of his grocery business, and had a strong sense of comfort in reflecting upon the unlimited supply.  He had been forced, in the last days of his law-practice, to stint himself even in this creature comfort.  On the whole, he was much happier when fairly established in trade than he had ever been before.  He was so absorbed in his business (all the details of which he mastered),