"It's a fine, unspoiled part of the world," remarked the lawyer with unusual pensiveness, setting his hat farther back from his forehead and looking into space. "When I get a glimpse of it as I did this week, I'm tempted to hasten my retirement, to bid farewell to the squabbling world, and turn fisherman,—begin to spread nets for mackerel instead of my fellow men, and trap only such lobsters as will blush in a pot instead of in court."
"Hear, hear," said Dunham. "You must have had good weather up there,—or else," he added, "fallen in love with your niece."
Judge Trent still looked into space. "Yes," he went on slowly, "move my books to the Mill Farm, leave Hannah the house, but not my address, and begin rising at 4 a.m. for breakfast with Cap'n Lem. Then row out to my pound, take in the fish, and send them to Boston. What retaining fee could compare to the satisfaction of making money that way? Think of the sights and sounds, the peace of mind!"
"Yes," said John, "but consider the obstacles."
"There wouldn't be any. I'd leave the good will of the office to you."
"I'm very grateful, but you forget. What would any well-regulated fish say to afternoon dress at 4 a.m., and wouldn't the wind blow your hat off?"
"John, you're a frivolous youth," responded the judge thoughtfully; "but," in a warmer tone, "there are some things you do very well. I"—still more warmly—"I have a little commission for you this afternoon."
Dunham looked up suspiciously.
"It happens very nicely that you don't wish to go to Boston to-day. I think it is due Miss Lacey that she should receive news of her niece's welfare. She knows I've been up there and"—
"Yes, she does know it," interrupted John with emphasis. "She is waiting with great eagerness to hear your report."