He was living over the past. He recalled his first meeting with
Mahaffy in the stuffy cabin of the small river packet from which
they had later gone ashore at Pleasantville; he thanked God that
it had been given him to see beneath Solomon's forbidding
exterior and into that starved heart! He reviewed each phase of
the almost insensible growth of their intimacy; he remembered
Mahaffy's fine true loyalty at the time of his arrest--he thought
of Damon and Pythias--Mahaffy had reached the heights of a
sublime devotion; he could only feel enobled that he had inspired
it.
At last the dusk of twilight invaded the room. He lighted the
candles on the chimneypiece, then he resumed his seat and his
former attitude. Suddenly he became aware of a small hand that
was resting on his arm and glanced up; Hannibal had stolen
quietly into the room. The boy pointed to the still figure on
the bed.
"Judge, what makes Mr. Mahaffy lie so quiet--is he dead?" he
asked in a whisper.
"Yes, dear lad," began the judge in a shaking voice as he drew
Hannibal toward him, "your friend and mine is dead--we have lost
him." He lifted the boy into his lap, and Hannibal pressed a
tear-stained face against the judge's shoulder. "How did you get
here?" the judge questioned gently.
"Uncle Bob fetched me," said Hannibal. "He's down-stairs, but he
didn't tell me Mr. Mahaffy was dead-"
"We have sustained a great loss, Hannibal, and we must never
forget the moral grandeur of the man.
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