Philip was cast down, all the more so because he had been so foolish as

to send the news to Philadelphia before he knew what he was writing

about. And now he must contradict it. "It turns out to be only a mere

seam," he wrote, "but we look upon it as an indication of better further

in."

Alas! Mr. Bolton's affairs could not wait for "indications." The future

might have a great deal in store, but the present was black and hopeless.

It was doubtful if any sacrifice could save him from ruin. Yet sacrifice

he must make, and that instantly, in the hope of saving something from

the wreck of his fortune.

His lovely country home must go. That would bring the most ready money.

The house that he had built with loving thought for each one of his

family, as he planned its luxurious apartments and adorned it; the

grounds that he had laid out, with so much delight in following the

tastes of his wife, with whom the country, the cultivation of rare trees

and flowers, the care of garden and lawn and conservatories were a

passion almost; this home, which he had hoped his children would enjoy

long after he had done with it, must go.

The family bore the sacrifice better than he did. They declared in fact

--women are such hypocrites--that they quite enjoyed the city (it was in

August) after living so long in the country, that it was a thousand tunes

more convenient in every respect; Mrs. Bolton said it was a relief from

the worry of a large establishment, and Ruth reminded her father that she

should have had to come to town anyway before long.

Mr. Bolton was relieved, exactly as a water-logged ship is lightened by

throwing overboard the most valuable portion of the cargo--but the leak

was not stopped. Indeed his credit was injured instead of helped by the

prudent step be had taken. It was regarded as a sure evidence of his

embarrassment, and it was much more difficult for him to obtain help than

if he had, instead of retrenching, launched into some new speculation.

Philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerated his own share in the

bringing about of the calamity.

"You must not look at it so!" Mr. Bolton wrote him. "You have neither

helped nor hindered--but you know you may help by and by. It would have

all happened just so, if we had never begun to dig that hole. That is

only a drop. Work away. I still have hope that something will occur to

relieve me. At any rate we must not give up the mine, so long as we have

any show."

Alas! the relief did not come. New misfortunes came instead. When the

extent of the Bigler swindle was disclosed there was no more hope that

Mr. Bolton could extricate himself, and he had, as an honest man, no

resource except to surrender all his property for the benefit of his

creditors.

The Autumn came and found Philip working with diminished force but still

with hope. He had again and again been encouraged by good "indications,"

but he had again and again been disappointed. He could not go on much

longer, and almost everybody except himself had thought it was useless to

go on as long as he had been doing.

When the news came of Mr. Bolton's failure, of course the work stopped.

The men were discharged, the tools were housed, the hopeful noise of

pickman and driver ceased, and the mining camp had that desolate and

mournful aspect which always hovers over a frustrated enterprise.

Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in them.

How distant Ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him most.

How changed was all the Philadelphia world, which had hitherto stood for

the exemplification of happiness and prosperity.

He still had faith that there was coal in that mountain. He made

a picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel,

digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and year

after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that region

as the old man of the mountain. Perhaps some day--he felt it must be so

some day--he should strike coal. But what if he did? Who would be alive

to care for it then? What would he care for it then? No, a man wants

riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him. He wondered why

Providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the

majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor

when they no longer needed it.

Harry went back to the city. It was evident that his services were no

longer needed. Indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not

read to Philip, desiring him to go to San Francisco to look after some

government contracts in the harbor there.

Philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like Adam;

the world was all before him whereto choose. He made, before he went

elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to Philadelphia, painful but yet not

without its sweetnesses. The family had never shown him so much

affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more

importance than their own misfortune. And there was that in Ruth's

manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--that would have made

a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip Sterling.

Among the assets of the Bolton property, the Ilium tract was sold, and

Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even

undertake the mortgage on it except himself. He went away the owner of

it, and had ample time before he reached home in November, to calculate

how much poorer he was by possessing it.

CHAPTER L.

It is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions,

to control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely

or to be successful. It is easy to see how things might have been better

managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very,

different history of this one now in hand.

If Philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might

now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest

lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving's bank and built a cottage,

and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of Ruth and himself. Instead

of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is at his

mother's house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the hardness

and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get the coal

out of the Ilium hills.

If Senator Dilworthy had not made that visit to Hawkeye, the Hawkins

family and Col. Sellers would not now be dancing attendance upon

Congress, and endeavoring to tempt that immaculate body into one of those

appropriations, for the benefit of its members, which the members find it

so difficult to explain to their constituents; and Laura would not be

lying in the Tombs, awaiting her trial for murder, and doing her best,

by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the pure fountain of criminal

procedure in New York.

If Henry Brierly had been blown up on the first Mississippi steamboat he

set foot on, as the chances were that he would be, he and Col. Sellers

never would have gone into the Columbus Navigation scheme, and probably

never into the East Tennessee Land scheme, and he would not now be

detained in New York from very important business operations on the

Pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giving evidence to convict of

murder the only woman he ever loved half as much as he loves himself.

If Mr. Bolton had said the little word "no" to Mr. Bigler, Alice Montague

might now be spending the winter in Philadelphia, and Philip also

(waiting to resume his mining operations in the spring); and Ruth would

not be an assistant in a Philadelphia hospital, taxing her strength with

arduous routine duties, day by day, in order to lighten a little the

burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate family.

It is altogether a bad business. An honest historian, who had progressed

thus far, and traced everything to such a condition of disaster and

suspension, might well be justified in ending his narrative and writing

--"after this the deluge." His only consolation would be in the reflection

that he was not responsible for either characters or events.

And the most annoying thought is that a little money, judiciously

applied, would relieve the burdens and anxieties of most of these people;

but affairs seem to be so arranged that money is most difficult to get

when people need it most.

A little of what Mr. Bolton has weakly given to unworthy people would now

establish his family in a sort of comfort, and relieve Ruth of the

excessive toil for which she inherited no adequate physical vigor.

A little money would make a prince of Col. Sellers; and a little more

would calm the anxiety of Washington Hawkins about Laura, for however the

trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the end. And if

Philip had a little money he could unlock the stone door in the mountain

whence would issue a stream of shining riches. It needs a golden wand to

strike that rock. If the Knobs University bill could only go through,

what a change would be wrought in the condition of most of the persons in

this history. Even Philip himself would feel the good effects of it;

for Harry would have something and Col. Sellers would have something;

and have not both these cautious people expressed a determination to take

an interest in the Ilium mine when they catch their larks?

Philip could not resist the inclination to pay a visit to Fallkill. He

had not been at the Montague's since the time he saw Ruth there, and he

wanted to consult the Squire about an occupation. He was determined now

to waste no more time in waiting on Providence, but to go to work at

something, if it were nothing better, than teaching in the Fallkill

Seminary, or digging clams on Hingham beach. Perhaps he could read law

in Squire Montague's office while earning his bread as a teacher in the

Seminary.

It was not altogether Philip's fault, let us own, that he was in this

position. There are many young men like him in American society, of his

age, opportunities, education and abilities, who have really been

educated for nothing and have let themselves drift, in the hope that they

will find somehow, and by some sudden turn of good luck, the golden road

to fortune. He was not idle or lazy, he had energy and a disposition to

carve his own way. But he was born into a time when all young men of his

age caught the fever of speculation, and expected to get on in the world

by the omission of some of the regular processes which have been

appointed from of old. And examples were not wanting to encourage him.

He saw people, all around him, poor yesterday, rich to-day, who had come

into sudden opulence by some means which they could not have classified

among any of the regular occupations of life. A war would give such a

fellow a career and very likely fame. He might have been a "railroad

man," or a politician, or a land speculator, or one of those mysterious

people who travel free on all rail-roads and steamboats, and are

continually crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, driven day and night

about nobody knows what, and make a great deal of money by so doing.

Probably, at last, he sometimes thought with a whimsical smile, he should

end by being an insurance agent, and asking people to insure their lives

for his benefit.

Possibly Philip did not think how much the attractions of Fallkill were

increased by the presence of Alice there. He had known her so long, she

had somehow grown into his life by habit, that he would expect the

pleasure of her society without thinking mach about it. Latterly he

never thought of her without thinking of Ruth, and if he gave the subject

any attention, it was probably in an undefined consciousness that, he had

her sympathy in his love, and that she was always willing to hear him

talk about it. If he ever wondered that Alice herself was not in love

and never spoke of the possibility of her own marriage, it was a

transient thought for love did not seem necessary, exactly, to one so

calm and evenly balanced and with so many resources in her herself.

Whatever her thoughts may have been they were unknown to Philip, as they

are to these historians; if she was seeming to be what she was not, and

carrying a burden heavier than any one else carried, because she had to

bear it alone, she was only doing what thousands of women do, with a

self-renunciation and heroism, of which men, impatient and complaining,

have no conception. Have not these big babies with beards filled all

literature with their outcries, their griefs and their lamentations? It

is always the gentle sex which is hard and cruel and fickle and

implacable.

"Do you think you would be contented to live in Fallkill, and attend the

county Court?" asked Alice, when Philip had opened the budget of his new

programme.

"Perhaps not always," said Philip, "I might go and practice in Boston

maybe, or go to Chicago."

"Or you might get elected to Congress."

Philip looked at Alice to see if she was in earnest and not chaffing him.

Her face was quite sober. Alice was one of those patriotic women in the

rural districts, who think men are still selected for Congress on account

of qualifications for the office.

"No," said Philip, "the chances are that a man cannot get into congress

now without resorting to arts and means that should render hint unfit to

go there; of course there are exceptions; but do you know that I could

not go into politics if I were a lawyer, without losing standing somewhat

in my profession, and without raising at least a suspicion of my

intentions and unselfishness? Why, it is telegraphed all over the

country and commented on as something wonderful if a congressman votes

honestly and unselfishly and refuses to take advantage of his position to

steal from the government."

"But," insisted Alice, "I should think it a noble ambition to go to

congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it. I don't believe it is as

corrupt as the English parliament used to be, if there is any truth in

the novels, and I suppose that is reformed."

"I'm sure I don't know where the reform is to begin. I've seen a

perfectly capable, honest man, time and again, run against an illiterate

trickster, and get beaten. I suppose if the people wanted decent members

of congress they would elect them. Perhaps," continued Philip with a

smile, "the women will have to vote."

"Well, I should be willing to, if it were a necessity, just as I would go

to war and do what I could, if the country couldn't be saved otherwise,"

said Alice, with a spirit that surprised Philip, well as he thought he

knew her. "If I were a young gentleman in these times--"

Philip laughed outright. "It's just what Ruth used to say, 'if she were

a man.' I wonder if all the young ladies are contemplating a change of

sex."

"No, only a changed sex," retorted Alice; "we contemplate for the most

part young men who don't care for anything they ought to care for."

"Well," said Philip, looking humble, "I care for some things, you and

Ruth for instance; perhaps I ought not to. Perhaps I ought to care for

Congress and that sort of thing."

"Don't be a goose, Philip. I heard from Ruth yesterday."

"Can I see her letter?"

"No, indeed. But I am afraid her hard work is telling on her, together

with her anxiety about her father."

"Do you think, Alice," asked Philip with one of those selfish thoughts

that are not seldom mixed with real love, "that Ruth prefers her

profession to--to marriage?"

"Philip," exclaimed Alice, rising to quit the room, and speaking

hurriedly as if the words were forced from her, "you are as blind as a

bat; Ruth would cut off her right hand for you this minute."

Philip never noticed that Alice's face was flushed and that her voice was

unsteady; he only thought of the delicious words he had heard. And the

poor girl, loyal to Ruth, loyal to Philip, went straight to her room,

locked the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed as if her heart

world break. And then she prayed that her Father in Heaven would give

her strength. And after a time she was calm again, and went to her

bureau drawer and took from a hiding place a little piece of paper,

yellow with age. Upon it was pinned a four-leaved clover, dry and yellow

also. She looked long at this foolish memento. Under the clover leaf

was written in a school-girl's hand--"Philip, June, 186-."

Squire Montague thought very well of Philip's proposal. It would have

been better if he had begun the study of the law as soon as he left

college, but it was not too late now, and besides he had gathered some

knowledge of the world.

"But," asked the Squire, "do you mean to abandon your land in

Pennsylvania?" This track of land seemed an immense possible fortune to

this New England lawyer-farmer. Hasn't it good timber, and doesn't the

railroad almost touch it?"

"I can't do anything with it now. Perhaps I can sometime."

"What is your reason for supposing that there is coal there?"

"The opinion of the best geologist I could consult, my own observation

of the country, and the little veins of it we found. I feel certain it

is there. I shall find it some day. I know it. If I can only keep the

land till I make money enough to try again."

Philip took from his pocket a map of the anthracite coal region, and

pointed out the position of the Ilium mountain which he had begun to

tunnel.

"Doesn't it look like it?"

"It certainly does," said the Squire, very much interested. It is not

unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be more taken with such a

venture than a speculator who, has had more experience in its

uncertainty. It was astonishing how many New England clergymen, in the

time of the petroleum excitement, took chances in oil. The Wall street

brokers are said to do a good deal of small business for country

clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the laudable desire of purifying

the New York stock board.

"I don't see that there is much risk," said the Squire, at length.

"The timber is worth more than the mortgage; and if that coal seam does

run there, it's a magnificent fortune. Would you like to try it again in

the spring, Phil?"

Like to try it! If he could have a little help, he would work himself,

with pick and barrow, and live on a crust. Only give him one more

chance.

And this is how it came about that the cautious old Squire Montague was

drawn into this young fellow's speculation, and began to have his serene

old age disturbed by anxieties and by the hope of a great stroke of luck.

"To be sure, I only care about it for the boy," he said. The Squire was

like everybody else; sooner or later he must "take a chance."

It is probably on account of the lack of enterprise in women that they

are not so fond of stock speculations and mine ventures as men. It is

only when woman becomes demoralized that she takes to any sort of

gambling. Neither Alice nor Ruth were much elated with the prospect of

Philip's renewal of his mining enterprise.

But Philip was exultant. He wrote to Ruth as if his fortune were already

made, and as if the clouds that lowered over the house of Bolton were

already in the deep bosom of a coal mine buried. Towards spring he went

to Philadelphia with his plans all matured for a new campaign. His

enthusiasm was irresistible.

"Philip has come, Philip has come," cried the children, as if some great

good had again come into the household; and the refrain even sang itself

over in Ruth's heart as she went the weary hospital rounds. Mr. Bolton

felt more courage than he had had in months, at the sight of his manly

face and the sound of his cheery voice.

Ruth's course was vindicated now, and it certainly did not become Philip,

who had nothing to offer but a future chance against the visible result

of her determination and industry, to open an argument with her. Ruth

was never more certain that she was right and that she was sufficient

unto herself. She, may be, did not much heed the still small voice that

sang in her maiden heart as she went about her work, and which lightened

it and made it easy, "Philip has come."

"I am glad for father's sake," she said to Philip, that thee has come.

"I can see that he depends greatly upon what thee can do. He thinks women

won't hold out long," added Ruth with the smile that Philip never exactly

understood.

"And aren't you tired sometimes of the struggle?"

"Tired? Yes, everybody is tired I suppose. But it is a glorious

profession. And would you want me to be dependent, Philip?"

"Well, yes, a little," said Philip, feeling his way towards what he

wanted to say.

"On what, for instance, just now?" asked Ruth, a little maliciously

Philip thought.

"Why, on----" he couldn't quite say it, for it occurred to him that he was

a poor stick for any body to lean on in the present state of his fortune,

and that the woman before him was at least as independent as he was.

"I don't mean depend," he began again. "But I love you, that's all. Am

I nothing--to you?" And Philip looked a little defiant, and as if he had

said something that ought to brush away all the sophistries of obligation

on either side, between man and woman.

Perhaps Ruth saw this. Perhaps she saw that her own theories of a

certain equality of power, which ought to precede a union of two hearts,

might be pushed too far. Perhaps she had felt sometimes her own weakness

and the need after all of so dear a sympathy and so tender an interest

confessed, as that which Philip could give. Whatever moved her--the

riddle is as old as creation--she simply looked up to Philip and said in

a low voice, "Everything."

And Philip clasping both her hands in his, and looking down into her

eyes, which drank in all his tenderness with the thirst of a true woman's

nature--

"Oh! Philip, come out here," shouted young Eli, throwing the door wide

open.

And Ruth escaped away to her room, her heart singing again, and now as if

it would burst for joy, "Philip has come."

That night Philip received a dispatch from Harry--"The trial begins

tomorrow."

CHAPTER, LI

December 18--, found Washington Hawkins and Col. Sellers once more at the

capitol of the nation, standing guard over the University bill. The

former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful. Washington's

distress of mind was chiefly on Laura's account. The court would soon

sit to try her, case, he said, and consequently a great deal of ready

money would be needed in the engineering of it. The University bill was

sure to pass this, time, and that would make money plenty, but might not

the, help come too late? Congress had only just assembled, and delays

were to be feared.

"Well," said the Colonel, "I don't know but you are more or less right,

there. Now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries. I think

Congress always tries to do as near right as it can, according to its

lights. A man can't ask any fairer, than that. The first preliminary it

always starts out on, is, to clean itself, so to speak. It will arraign

two or three dozen of its members, or maybe four or five dozen, for

taking bribes to vote for this and that and the other bill last winter."

"It goes up into the dozens, does it?"

"Well, yes; in a free country likes ours, where any man can run for

Congress and anybody can vote for him, you can't expect immortal purity

all the time--it ain't in nature. Sixty or eighty or a hundred and fifty

people are bound to get in who are not angels in disguise, as young Hicks

the correspondent says; but still it is a very good average; very good

indeed. As long as it averages as well as that, I think we can feel very

well satisfied. Even in these days, when people growl so much and the

newspapers are so out of patience, there is still a very respectable

minority of honest men in Congress."

"Why a respectable minority of honest men can't do any good, Colonel."

"Oh, yes it can, too"

"Why, how?"

"Oh, in many ways, many ways."

"But what are the ways?"

"Well--I don't know--it is a question that requires time; a body can't

answer every question right off-hand. But it does do good. I am

satisfied of that."

"All right, then; grant that it does good; go on with the preliminaries."

"That is what I am coming to. First, as I said, they will try a lot of

members for taking money for votes. That will take four weeks."

"Yes, that's like last year; and it is a sheer waste of the time for

which the nation pays those men to work--that is what that is. And it

pinches when a body's got a bill waiting."

"A waste of time, to purify the fountain of public law? Well, I never

heard anybody express an idea like that before. But if it were, it would

still be the fault of the minority, for the majority don't institute

these proceedings. There is where that minority becomes an obstruction

--but still one can't say it is on the wrong side.--Well, after they have

finished the bribery cases, they will take up cases of members who have

bought their seats with money. That will take another four weeks."

"Very good; go on. You have accounted for two-thirds of the session."

"Next they will try each other for various smaller irregularities, like

the sale of appointments to West Point cadetships, and that sort of

thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterprises that might better, be

passed over in silence, perhaps, but then one of our Congresses can never

rest easy till it has thoroughly purified itself of all blemishes--and

that is a thing to be applauded."

"How long does it take to disinfect itself of these minor impurities?"

"Well, about two weeks, generally."

"So Congress always lies helpless in quarantine ten weeks of a session.

That's encouraging. Colonel, poor Laura will never get any benefit from

our bill. Her trial will be over before Congress has half purified

itself.--And doesn't it occur to you that by the time it has expelled all

its impure members there, may not be enough members left to do business

legally?"

"Why I did not say Congress would expel anybody."

"Well won't it expel anybody?"

"Not necessarily. Did it last year? It never does. That would not be

regular."

"Then why waste all the session in that tomfoolery of trying members?"

"It is usual; it is customary; the country requires it."

"Then the country is a fool, I think."

"Oh, no. The country thinks somebody is going to be expelled."

"Well, when nobody is expelled, what does the country think then?"

"By that time, the thing has strung out so long that the country is sick

and tired of it and glad to have a change on any terms. But all that

inquiry is not lost. It has a good moral effect."

"Who does it have a good moral effect on?"

"Well--I don't know. On foreign countries, I think. We have always been

under the gaze of foreign countries. There is no country in the world,

sir, that pursues corruption as inveterately as we do. There is no

country in the world whose representatives try each other as much as ours

do, or stick to it as long on a stretch. I think there is something

great in being a model for the whole civilized world, Washington"

"You don't mean a model; you mean an example."

"Well, it's all the same; it's just the same thing. It shows that a man

can't be corrupt in this country without sweating for it, I can tell you

that."

"Hang it, Colonel, you just said we never punish anybody for villainous

practices."

"But good God we try them, don't we! Is it nothing to show a disposition

to sift things and bring people to a strict account? I tell you it has

its effect."

"Oh, bother the effect!--What is it they do do? How do they proceed?

You know perfectly well--and it is all bosh, too. Come, now, how do they

proceed?"

"Why they proceed right and regular--and it ain't bosh, Washington, it

ain't bosh. They appoint a committee to investigate, and that committee

hears evidence three weeks, and all the witnesses on one side swear that

the accused took money or stock or something for his vote. Then the

accused stands up and testifies that he may have done it, but he was

receiving and handling a good deal of money at the time and he doesn't

remember this particular circumstance--at least with sufficient

distinctness to enable him to grasp it tangibly. So of course the thing

is not proven--and that is what they say in the verdict. They don't

acquit, they don't condemn. They just say, 'Charge not proven.' It

leaves the accused is a kind of a shaky condition before the country,

it purifies Congress, it satisfies everybody, and it doesn't seriously

hurt anybody. It has taken a long time to perfect our system, but it is

the most admirable in the world, now."

"So one of those long stupid investigations always turns out in that lame

silly way. Yes, you are correct. I thought maybe you viewed the matter

differently from other people. Do you think a Congress of ours could

convict the devil of anything if he were a member?"

"My dear boy, don't let these damaging delays prejudice you against

Congress. Don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper.

Congress has inflicted frightful punishments on its members--now you know

that. When they tried Mr. Fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses proved him

to be--well, you know what they proved him to be--and his own testimony

and his own confessions gave him the same character, what did Congress do

then?--come!"

"Well, what did Congress do?"

"You know what Congress did, Washington. Congress intimated plainly

enough, that they considered him almost a stain upon their body; and

without waiting ten days, hardly, to think the thing over, the rose up

and hurled at him a resolution declaring that they disapproved of his

conduct! Now you know that, Washington."

"It was a terrific thing--there is no denying that. If he had been

proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousness, infanticide, and defiling

graves, I believe they would have suspended him for two days."

"You can depend on it, Washington. Congress is vindictive, Congress is

savage, sir, when it gets waked up once. It will go to any length to

vindicate its honor at such a time."

"Ah well, we have talked the morning through, just as usual in these

tiresome days of waiting, and we have reached the same old result; that

is to say, we are no better off than when we began. The land bill is

just as far away as ever, and the trial is closer at hand. Let's give up

everything and die."

"Die and leave the Duchess to fight it out all alone? Oh, no, that won't

do. Come, now, don't talk so. It is all going to come out right. Now

you'll see."

"It never will, Colonel, never in the world. Something tells me that.

I get more tired and more despondent every day. I don't see any hope;

life is only just a trouble. I am so miserable, these days!"

The Colonel made Washington get up and walk the floor with him, arm in

arm. The good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew

how to go about it. He made many attempts, but they were lame; they

lacked spirit; the words were encouraging; but they were only words--he

could not get any heart into them. He could not always warm up, now,

with the old Hawkeye fervor. By and by his lips trembled and his voice

got unsteady. He said:

"Don't give up the ship, my boy--don't do it. The wind's bound to fetch

around and set in our favor. I know it."

And the prospect was so cheerful that he wept. Then he blew a

trumpet-blast that started the meshes of his handkerchief, and said in

almost his breezy old-time way:

"Lord bless us, this is all nonsense! Night doesn't last always; day has

got to break some time or other. Every silver lining has a cloud behind

it, as the poet says; and that remark has always cheered me; though

--I never could see any meaning to it. Everybody uses it, though, and

everybody gets comfort out of it. I wish they would start something

fresh. Come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea

as there are now. It shall never be said that Beriah Sellers

--Come in?"

It was the telegraph boy. The Colonel reached for the message and

devoured its contents:

"I said it! Never give up the ship! The trial's, postponed till

February, and we'll save the child yet. Bless my life, what lawyers

they, have in New-York! Give them money to fight with; and the ghost of

an excuse, and they: would manage to postpone anything in this world,

unless it might be the millennium or something like that. Now for work

again my boy. The trial will last to the middle of March, sure; Congress

ends the fourth of March. Within three days of the end of the session

they will be done putting through the preliminaries then they will be

ready for national business: Our bill will go through in forty-eight

hours, then, and we'll telegraph a million dollar's to the jury--to the

lawyers, I mean--and the verdict of the jury will be 'Accidental murder

resulting from justifiable insanity'--or something to, that effect,

something to that effect.--Everything is dead sure, now. Come, what is

the matter? What are you wilting down like that, for? You mustn't be a

girl, you know."

"Oh, Colonel, I am become so used to troubles, so used to failures,

disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, that a little good news breaks

me right down. Everything has been so hopeless that now I can't stand

good news at all. It is too good to be true, anyway. Don't you see how

our bad luck has worked on me? My hair is getting gray, and many nights

I don't sleep at all. I wish it was all over and we could rest. I wish

we could lie, down and just forget everything, and let it all be just a

dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more. I am so

tired."

"Ah, poor child, don't talk like that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead.

Don't give, up. You'll have Laura again, and--Louise, and your mother,

and oceans and oceans of money--and then you can go away, ever so far

away somewhere, if you want to, and forget all about this infernal place.

And by George I'll go with you! I'll go with you--now there's my word on

it. Cheer up. I'll run out and tell the friends the news."

And he wrung Washington's hand and was about to hurry away when his

companion, in a burst of grateful admiration said:

"I think you are the best soul and the noblest I ever knew, Colonel

Sellers! and if the people only knew you as I do, you would not be

tagging around here a nameless man--you would be in Congress."

The gladness died out of the Colonel's face, and he laid his hand upon

Washington's shoulder and said gravely:

"I have always been a friend of your family, Washington, and I think I

have always tried to do right as between man and man, according to my

lights. Now I don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct

that should make you feel Justified in saying a thing like that."

He turned, then, and walked slowly out, leaving Washington abashed and

somewhat bewildered. When Washington had presently got his thoughts into

line again, he said to himself, "Why, honestly, I only meant to

compliment him--indeed I would not have hurt him for the world."

CHAPTER LII.

The weeks drifted by monotonously enough, now. The "preliminaries"

continued to drag along in Congress, and life was a dull suspense to

Sellers and Washington, a weary waiting which might have broken their

hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change which they got out of am

occasional visit to New York to see Laura. Standing guard in Washington

or anywhere else is not an exciting business in time of peace, but

standing guard was all that the two friends had to do; all that was

needed of them was that they should be on hand and ready for any

emergency that might come up. There was no work to do; that was all

finished; this was but the second session of the last winter's Congress,

and its action on the bill could have but one result--its passage. The

house must do its work over again, of course, but the same membership was

there to see that it did it.--The Senate was secure--Senator Dilworthy

was able to put all doubts to rest on that head. Indeed it was no secret

in Washington that a two-thirds vote in the Senate was ready and waiting

to be cast for the University bill as soon as it should come before that

body.

Washington did not take part in the gaieties of "the season," as he had

done the previous winter. He had lost his interest in such things; he

was oppressed with cares, now. Senator Dilworthy said to Washington that

an humble deportment, under punishment, was best, and that there was but

one way in which the troubled heart might find perfect repose and peace.

The suggestion found a response in Washington's breast, and the Senator

saw the sign of it in his face.

From that moment one could find the youth with the Senator even oftener

than with Col. Sellers. When the statesman presided at great temperance

meetings, he placed Washington in the front rank of impressive

dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion and pomp to the platform.

His bald headed surroundings made the youth the more conspicuous.

When the statesman made remarks in these meetings, he not infrequently

alluded with effect to the encouraging spectacle of one of the wealthiest

and most brilliant young favorites of society forsaking the light

vanities of that butterfly existence to nobly and self-sacrificingly

devote his talents and his riches to the cause of saving his hapless

fellow creatures from shame and misery here and eternal regret hereafter.

At the prayer meetings the Senator always brought Washington up the aisle

on his arm and seated him prominently; in his prayers he referred to him

in the cant terms which the Senator employed, perhaps unconsciously, and

mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other ways brought him into notice.

He had him out at gatherings for the benefit of the negro, gatherings for

the benefit of the Indian, gatherings for the benefit of the heathen in

distant lands. He had him out time and again, before Sunday Schools,

as an example for emulation. Upon all these occasions the Senator made

casual references to many benevolent enterprises which his ardent young

friend was planning against the day when the passage of the University

bill should make his means available for the amelioration of the

condition of the unfortunate among his fellow men of all nations and all.

climes. Thus as the weeks rolled on Washington grew up, into an imposing

lion once more, but a lion that roamed the peaceful fields of religion

and temperance, and revisited the glittering domain of fashion no more.

A great moral influence was thus brought, to bear in favor of the bill;

the weightiest of friends flocked to its standard; its most energetic

enemies said it was useless to fight longer; they had tacitly surrendered

while as yet the day of battle was not come.

CHAPTER LIII.

The session was drawing toward its close. Senator Dilworthy thought he

would run out west and shake hands with his constituents and let them

look at him. The legislature whose duty it would be to re-elect him to

the United States Senate, was already in session. Mr. Dilworthy

considered his re-election certain, but he was a careful, painstaking

man, and if, by visiting his State he could find the opportunity to

persuade a few more legislators to vote for him, he held the journey to

be well worth taking. The University bill was safe, now; he could leave

it without fear; it needed his presence and his watching no longer.

But there was a person in his State legislature who did need watching

--a person who, Senator Dilworthy said, was a narrow, grumbling,

uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was stolidly opposed to reform,

and progress and him,--a person who, he feared, had been bought with

money to combat him, and through him the commonwealth's welfare and its

politics' purity.

"If this person Noble," said Mr. Dilworthy, in a little speech at a

dinner party given him by some of his admirers, "merely desired to

sacrifice me.--I would willingly offer up my political life on the altar

of my dear State's weal, I would be glad and grateful to do it; but when

he makes of me but a cloak to hide his deeper designs, when he proposes

to strike through me at the heart of my beloved State, all the lion in me

is roused--and I say here I stand, solitary and alone, but unflinching,

unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred trust; and whoso passes, to do

evil to this fair domain that looks to me for protection, must do so over

my dead body."

He further said that if this Noble were a pure man, and merely misguided,

he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked designs

through, a base use of money would leave a blot upon his State which

would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he would not

suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated. He would seek this

man Noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal to his

honor.

When he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they were

standing firmly by him and were full of courage. Noble was working hard,

too, but matters were against him, he was not making much progress.

Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for Mr. Noble; he had a

midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil ways; he

begged him to come again and again, which he did. He finally sent the

man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, Mr. Dilworthy

said to himself,

"I feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved."

The Senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of his

people. He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer

meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the

sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle

now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor

Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this act enchanted the ladies,

who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified.

The Senator wrought in Bible classes, and nothing could keep him away

from the Sunday Schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness.

He even traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety

stagecoach to comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of

Cattleville that he would let its Sunday School look upon him.

All the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived,

two bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant

broadsides; for a United States Senator was a sort of god in the

understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier

than a county judge. To them a United States Senator was a vast, vague

colossus, an awe inspiring unreality.

Next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before time

for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their

families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the great

man--the man who had been to Washington; the man who had seen the

President of the United States, and had even talked with him; the man who

had seen the actual Washington Monument--perhaps touched it with his

hands.

When the Senator arrived the Church was crowded, the windows were full,

the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard

in front of the building. As he worked his way through to the pulpit on

the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of the

village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around

intervening obstructions to get a glimpse. Elderly people directed each

other's attention and, said, "There! that's him, with the grand, noble

forehead!" Boys nudged each other and said, "Hi, Johnny, here he is,

there, that's him, with the peeled head!"

The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister' on one side

of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday School on the other.

The town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings

below. The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches.

dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair

combed and faces too clean to feel natural. So awed were they by the

presence of a living United States Senator, that during three minutes not

a "spit ball" was thrown. After that they began to come to themselves by

degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they were reciting

verses and pulling hair.

The usual Sunday School exercises were hurried through, and then the

minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the customary

Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent put in his oar; then the town

dignitaries had their say. They all made complimentary reference to

"their friend the, Senator," and told what a great and illustrious man he

was and what he had done for his country and for religion and temperance,

and exhorted the little boys to be good and diligent and try to become

like him some day. The speakers won the deathless hatred of the house by

these delays, but at last there was an end and hope revived; inspiration

was about to find utterance.

Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute

in silence. Then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children

and began:

"My little friends--for I hope that all these bright-faced little people

are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends, I have

traveled much, I have been in many cities and many States, everywhere in

our great and noble country, and by the blessing of Providence I have

been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but I am proud, I am

truly proud to say that I never have looked upon so much intelligence,

so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as I see in the charming

young countenances I see before me at this moment. I have been asking

myself as I sat here, Where am I? Am I in some far-off monarchy, looking

upon little princes and princesses? No. Am I in some populous centre of

my own country, where the choicest children of the land have been

selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize? No. Am I in

some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels that we know

not of? No. Then where am I? Yes--where am I? I am in a simple,

remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear State, and these are the

children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what I am!

My soul is lost in wonder at the thought! And I humbly thank Him to whom

we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call me to

serve such men! Earth has no higher, no grander position for me. Let

kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, I want them not; my heart is

here!

"Again I thought, Is this a theatre? No. Is it a concert or a gilded

opera? No. Is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of

soul-staining amusement and hilarity? No. Then what is it? What did

my consciousness reply? I ask you, my little friends, What did my

consciousness reply? It replied, It is the temple of the Lord! Ah,

think of that, now. I could hardly keep the tears back, I was so

grateful. Oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little

faces assembled here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to

learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and

glorious men and women; to learn to be props and pillars of the State and

shining lights in the councils and the households of the nation; to be

bearers of the banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of

life, and raptured souls in the happy fields of Paradise hereafter.

"Children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for

you the precious privileges of a Sunday School.

"Now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's

it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little

Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He lived in the far west, and his

parents were poor. They could not give him a costly education; but they

were good and wise and they sent him to the Sunday School. He loved the

Sunday School. I hope you love your Sunday School--ah, I see by your

faces that you do! That is right!

"Well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang,

and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and

he loved his teachers dearly. Always love your teachers, my children,

for they love you more than you can know, now. He would not let bad boys

persuade him to go to play on Sunday. There was one little bad boy who

was always trying to persuade him, but he never could.

"So this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the

world, far from home and friends to earn his living. Temptations lay all

about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of

some precious lesson he learned in his Sunday School a long time ago, and

that would save him. By and by he was elected to the legislature--Then

he did everything he could for Sunday Schools. He got laws passed for

them; he got Sunday Schools established wherever he could.

"And by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all owing

to the Sunday School.

"After a while the people elected him a Representative to the Congress of

the United States, and he grew very famous.--Now temptations assailed him

on every hand. People tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to go to

theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of his

Sunday School saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of the bad

little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunday, and who grew up

and became a drunkard and was hanged. He remembered that, and was glad

he never yielded and played on Sunday.

"Well, at last, what do you think happened? Why the people gave him a

towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position. And what do

you think it was? What should you say it was, children? It was Senator

of the United States! That poor little boy that loved his Sunday School

became that man. That man stands before you! All that he is, he owes to

the Sunday School.

"My precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your

Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then

you will succeed in life and be honored of all men. Above all things,

my children, be honest. Above all things be pure-minded as the snow.

Let us join in prayer."

When Senator Dilworthy departed from Cattleville, he left three dozen

boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was

the United States Senate.

When be arrived at the State capital at midnight Mr. Noble came and held

a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving

said:

"I've worked hard, and I've got them at last. Six of them haven't got

quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the

first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the

first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a

body on the second--I've fixed all that! By supper time to-morrow you'll

be re-elected. You can go to bed and sleep easy on that."

After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said:

"Well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming

West for."

CHAPTER LIV.

The case of the State of New York against Laura Hawkins was finally set

down for trial on the 15th day of February, less than a year after the

shooting of George Selby.

If the public had almost forgotten the existence of Laura and her crime,

they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers,

which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial. But they

had not forgotten. The sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her

high social position in Washington, the unparalleled calmness with which

the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public

mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had

occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life.

No, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner, languishing

in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay; and as the

months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime should become

a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it should be invested

with a sort of sentimental interest. Perhaps her counsel had calculated

on this. Perhaps it was by their advice that Laura had interested

herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her prison confinement,

and had done not a little to relieve, from her own purse, the necessities

of some of the poor creatures. That she had done this, the public read

in the journals of the day, and the simple announcement cast a softening

light upon her character.

The court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of

judges, lawyers and prisoner. There is no enjoyment so keen to certain

minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on trial

for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human

ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers

in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such

subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence.

All the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial. The

awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look.

How the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the

keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner. Nothing is

lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured

decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the

witnesses. The crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting,

testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the

judge in breathless silence. It speedily takes sides for or against

the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers.

Nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the

discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. A joke, even if it be a lame,

one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder

trial.

Within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled all

the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in the

case. Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and

the standing room. The atmosphere was already something horrible.

It was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by

the presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women

can commit.

There was a little stir when the Prosecuting Attorney, with two

assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his

papers before him. There was more stir when the counsel of the defense

appeared. They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr.

O'Keefe, the juniors.

Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer,

and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved to

his place, bowing to his friends in the bar. A large but rather spare

man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut curls

which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit of shaking

as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. His face was clean shaven,

and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite too near

together: Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned across his breast,

with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light pantaloons.

A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he seated himself

and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed upon his white

left hand. Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately surveyed the

entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and then taking an

ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his finger nails,

rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly.

A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took his

seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black

broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round; reddish and

rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a

self-sufficient air. His career had nothing remarkable in it. He was

descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of

them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the

city of New York. He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he

found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but he had

ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to boot-polishing,

and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand boy of a law firm,

picked up knowledge enough to get some employment in police courts, was

admitted to the bar, became a rising young politician, went to the

legislature, and was finally elected to the bench which he now honored.

In this democratic country he was obliged to conceal his royalty under

a plebeian aspect. Judge O'Shaunnessy never had a lucrative practice nor

a large salary but he had prudently laid away money-believing that

a dependant judge can never be impartial--and he had lands and houses

to the value of three or four hundred thousand dollars. Had he not

helped to build and furnish this very Court House? Did he not know that

the very "spittoon" which his judgeship used cost the city the sum of one

thousand dollars?

As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened, with the "oi yis,

oi yis" of the officer in his native language, the case called, and the

sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner. In the midst of a

profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was

conducted to a seat by her counsel. She was followed by her mother and

by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her.

Laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large

eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face. She was dressed

in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament. The thin

lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as

heighten her beauty. She would not have entered a drawing room with more

self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility. There was in her

manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat in

fall view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast. A murmur of

admiration ran through the room. The newspaper reporters made their

pencils fly. Mr. Braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in

approval. When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip

and Harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition.

The clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form. It

charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of George

Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle,

repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other,

weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife,

bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a

hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, and with all other weapons and

utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel and in all other hotels and

places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of March and all other days of

the Christian era wheresoever.

Laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in

response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice;

"Not guilty." She sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury.

The first man called was Michael Lanigan, saloon keeper.

"Have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know

any of the parties?"

"Not any," said Mr. Lanigan.

"Have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?"

"No, sir, not to my knowledge."

"Have you read anything about this case?"

"To be sure, I read the papers, y'r Honor."

Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and discharged.

Patrick Coughlin.

"What is your business?"

"Well--I haven't got any particular business."

"Haven't any particular business, eh? Well, what's your general

business? What do you do for a living?"

"I own some terriers, sir."

"Own some terriers, eh? Keep a rat pit?"

"Gentlemen comes there to have a little sport. I never fit 'em, sir."

"Oh, I see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city council.

Have you ever heard of this case?"

"Not till this morning, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Not fine print, y'r Honor."

The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Braham asked,

"Could your father read?"

"The old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir."

Mr. Braham submitted that the man was disqualified Judge thought not.

Point argued. Challenged peremptorily, and set aside.

Ethan Dobb, cart-driver.

"Can you read?"

"Yes, but haven't a habit of it."

"Have you heard of this case?"

"I think so--but it might be another. I have no opinion about it."

Dist. A. "Tha--tha--there! Hold on a bit? Did anybody tell you to say

you had no opinion about it?"

"N--n--o, sir."

Take care now, take care. Then what suggested it to you to volunteer

that remark?"

"They've always asked that, when I was on juries."

All right, then. Have you any conscientious scruples about capital

punishment?"

"Any which?"

"Would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?"

"I might, sir, if I thought he wan't guilty."

The district attorney thought he saw a point.

"Would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?"

The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the parties.

Accepted and sworn.

Dennis Lafin, laborer. Have neither formed nor expressed an opinion.

Never had heard of the case. Believed in hangin' for them that deserved

it. Could read if it was necessary.

Mr. Braham objected. The man was evidently bloody minded. Challenged

peremptorily.

Larry O'Toole, contractor. A showily dressed man of the style known as

"vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye and a ready tongue. Had read the

newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him.

Should be governed by the evidence. Knew no reason why he could not be

an impartial juror.

Question by District Attorney.

"How is it that the reports made no impression on you?"

"Never believe anything I see in the newspapers."

(Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his Honor and Mr.

Braham.) Juror sworn in. Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe, "that's the

man."

Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler. Did he ever hear of this case? The man

shook his head.

"Can you read?"

"No." "Any scruples about capital punishment?"

"No."

He was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him

carelessly, remarked,

"Understand the nature of an oath?"

"Outside," said the man, pointing to the door.

"I say, do you know what an oath is?"

"Five cents," explained the man.

"Do you mean to insult me?" roared the prosecuting officer. "Are you an

idiot?"

"Fresh baked. I'm deefe. I don't hear a word you say."

The man was discharged. "He wouldn't have made a bad juror, though,"

whispered Braham. "I saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly.

That's a point you want to watch for."

The result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors.

These however were satisfactory to Mr. Braham. He had kept off all those

he did not know. No one knew better than this great criminal lawyer that

the battle was fought on the selection of the jury. The subsequent

examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all for

effect outside. At least that is the theory of Mr. Braham. But human

nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably

swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them.

It was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was

finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence.

So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the

foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy contractor. Low foreheads and

heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the

most were only stupid. The entire panel formed that boasted heritage

commonly described as the "bulwark of our liberties."

The District Attorney, Mr. McFlinn, opened the case for the state. He

spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but not

cultivated. He contented himself with a brief statement of the case.

The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, the prisoner at the bar, a

fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead George Selby, a

Southern gentleman, at the, time and place described. That the murder

was in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been

long premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased-from

Washington to commit it. All this would be proved by unimpeachable

witnesses. The attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful

it might be, would be plain and simple. They were citizens, husbands,

perhaps fathers. They knew how insecure life had become in the

metropolis. Tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children

orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband

and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female. The attorney

sat down, and the clerk called?"

"Henry Brierly."

CHAPTER LV.

Henry Brierly took the stand. Requested by the District Attorney to tell

the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances

substantially as the reader already knows them.

He accompanied Miss Hawkins to New York at her request, supposing she was

coming in relation to a bill then pending in Congress, to secure the

attendance of absent members. Her note to him was here shown. She

appeared to be very much excited at the Washington station. After she

had asked the conductor several questions, he heard her say, "He can't

escape." Witness asked her "Who?" and she replied "Nobody." Did not see

her during the night. They traveled in a sleeping car. In the morning

she appeared not to have slept, said she had a headache. In crossing the

ferry she asked him about the shipping in sight; he pointed out where the

Cunarders lay when in port. They took a cup of coffee that morning at a

restaurant. She said she was anxious to reach the Southern Hotel where

Mr. Simons, one of the absent members, was staying, before he went out.

She was entirely self-possessed, and beyond unusual excitement did not

act unnaturally. After she had fired twice at Col. Selby, she turned the

pistol towards her own breast, and witness snatched it from her. She had

seen a great deal with Selby in Washington, appeared to be infatuated

with him.

(Cross-examined by Mr. Braham.) "Mist-er.....er Brierly!" (Mr. Braham had

in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoying a witness, by drawling out

the "Mister," as if unable to recall the name, until the witness is

sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly, with a rising inflection,

flinging his name at him with startling unexpectedness.) "Mist-er.....er

Brierly! What is your occupation?"

"Civil Engineer, sir."

"Ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at the jury). Following that

occupation with Miss Hawkins?" (Smiles by the jury).

"No, sir," said Harry, reddening.

"How long have you known the prisoner?"

"Two years, sir. I made her acquaintance in Hawkeye, Missouri."

"M.....m...m. Mist-er.....er Brierly! Were you not a lover of Miss

Hawkins?"

Objected to. "I submit, your Honor, that I have the right to establish

the relation of this unwilling witness to the prisoner." Admitted.

"Well, sir," said Harry hesitatingly, "we were friends."

"You act like a friend!" (sarcastically.) The jury were beginning to hate

this neatly dressed young sprig. "Mister......er....Brierly! Didn't

Miss Hawkins refuse you?"

Harry blushed and stammered and looked at the judge. "You must answer,

sir," said His Honor.

"She--she--didn't accept me."

"No. I should think not. Brierly do you dare tell the jury that you had

not an interest in the removal of your rival, Col. Selby?" roared Mr.

Braham in a voice of thunder.

"Nothing like this, sir, nothing like this," protested the witness.

"That's all, sir," said Mr. Braham severely.

"One word," said the District Attorney. "Had you the least suspicion of

the prisoner's intention, up to the moment of the shooting?"

"Not the least," answered Harry earnestly.

"Of course not, of course-not," nodded Mr. Braham to the jury.

The prosecution then put upon the stand the other witnesses of the

shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and the attending physicians. The

fact of the homicide was clearly established. Nothing new was elicited,

except from the clerk, in reply to a question by Mr. Braham, the fact

that when the prisoner enquired for Col. Selby she appeared excited and

there was a wild look in her eyes.

The dying deposition of Col. Selby was then produced. It set forth

Laura's threats, but there was a significant addition to it, which the

newspaper report did not have. It seemed that after the deposition was

taken as reported, the Colonel was told for the first time by his

physicians that his wounds were mortal. He appeared to be in great

mental agony and fear; and said he had not finished his deposition.

He added, with great difficulty and long pauses these words. "I--have

--not--told--all. I must tell--put--it--down--I--wronged--her. Years

--ago--I--can't see--O--God--I--deserved----" That was all. He fainted

and did not revive again.

The Washington railway conductor testified that the prisoner had asked

him if a gentleman and his family went out on the evening train,

describing the persons he had since learned were Col. Selby and family.

Susan Cullum, colored servant at Senator Dilworthy's, was sworn. Knew

Col. Selby. Had seen him come to the house often, and be alone in the

parlor with Miss Hawkins. He came the day but one before he was shot.

She let him in. He appeared flustered like. She heard talking in the

parlor, I peared like it was quarrelin'. Was afeared sumfin' was wrong:

Just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the back parlor-door. Heard a man's

voice, "I--can't--I can't, Good God," quite beggin' like. Heard--young

Miss' voice, "Take your choice, then. If you 'bandon me, you knows what

to 'spect." Then he rushes outen the house, I goes in--and I says,

"Missis did you ring?" She was a standin' like a tiger, her eyes

flashin'. I come right out.

This was the substance of Susan's testimony, which was not shaken in the

least by severe cross-examination. In reply to Mr. Braham's question, if

the prisoner did not look insane, Susan said, "Lord; no, sir, just mad as

a hawnet."

Washington Hawkins was sworn. The pistol, identified by the officer as

the one used in the homicide, was produced Washington admitted that it

was his. She had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she

had heard burglars the night before. Admitted that he never had heard

burglars in the house. Had anything unusual happened just before that.

Nothing that he remembered. Did he accompany her to a reception at Mrs.

Shoonmaker's a day or two before? Yes. What occurred? Little by little

it was dragged out of the witness that Laura had behaved strangely there,

appeared to be sick, and he had taken her home. Upon being pushed he

admitted that she had afterwards confessed that she saw Selby there.

And Washington volunteered the statement that Selby, was a black-hearted

villain.

The District Attorney said, with some annoyance; "There--there! That will

do."

The defence declined to examine Mr. Hawkins at present. The case for the

prosecution was closed. Of the murder there could not be the least

doubt, or that the prisoner followed the deceased to New York with a

murderous intent: On the evidence the jury must convict, and might do so

without leaving their seats. This was the condition of the case

two days after the jury had been selected. A week had passed since the

trial opened; and a Sunday had intervened.

The public who read the reports of the evidence saw no chance for the

prisoner's escape. The crowd of spectators who had watched the trial

were moved with the most profound sympathy for Laura.

Mr. Braham opened the case for the defence. His manner was subdued, and

he spoke in so low a voice that it was only by reason of perfect silence

in the court room that he could be heard. He spoke very distinctly,

however, and if his nationality could be discovered in his speech it was

only in a certain richness and breadth of tone.

He began by saying that he trembled at the responsibility he had

undertaken; and he should, altogether despair, if he did not see before

him a jury of twelve men of rare intelligence, whose acute minds would

unravel all the sophistries of the prosecution, men with a sense, of

honor, which would revolt at the remorseless persecution of this hunted

woman by the state, men with hearts to feel for the wrongs of which she

was the victim. Far be it from him to cast any suspicion upon the

motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious lawyers of the state; they

act officially; their business is to convict. It is our business,

gentlemen, to see that justice is done.

"It is my duty, gentlemen, to untold to you one of the most affecting

dramas in all, the history of misfortune. I shall have to show you a

life, the sport of fate and circumstances, hurried along through shifting

storm and sun, bright with trusting innocence and anon black with

heartless villainy, a career which moves on in love and desertion and

anguish, always hovered over by the dark spectre of INSANITY--an insanity

hereditary and induced by mental torture,--until it ends, if end it must

in your verdict, by one of those fearful accidents, which are inscrutable

to men and of which God alone knows the secret.

"Gentlemen, I, shall ask you to go with me away from this court room and

its minions of the law, away from the scene of this tragedy, to a

distant, I wish I could say a happier day. The story I have to tell is

of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair and laughing eyes, traveling

with her parents, evidently people of wealth and refinement, upon a

Mississippi steamboat. There is an explosion, one of those terrible

catastrophes which leave the imprint of an unsettled mind upon the

survivors. Hundreds of mangled remains are sent into eternity. When the

wreck is cleared away this sweet little girl is found among the panic

stricken survivors in the midst of a scene of horror enough to turn the

steadiest brain. Her parents have disappeared. Search even for their

bodies is in vain. The bewildered, stricken child--who can say what

changes the fearful event wrought in her tender brain--clings to the

first person who shows her sympathy. It is Mrs. Hawkins, this good lady

who is still her loving friend. Laura is adopted into the Hawkins

family. Perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child. She is

an orphan. No, gentlemen, I will not deceive you, she is not an orphan.

Worse than that. There comes another day of agony. She knows that her

father lives. Who is he, where is he? Alas, I cannot tell you. Through

the scenes of this painful history he flits here and there a lunatic!

If he, seeks his daughter, it is the purposeless search of a lunatic, as

one who wanders bereft of reason, crying where is my child? Laura seeks

her father. In vain just as she is about to find him, again and again-he

disappears, he is gone, he vanishes.

"But this is only the prologue to the tragedy. Bear with me while I

relate it. (Mr. Braham takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it slowly;

crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws it on the table). Laura grew

up in her humble southern home, a beautiful creature, the joy, of the

house, the pride of the neighborhood, the loveliest flower in all the

sunny south. She might yet have been happy; she was happy. But the

destroyer came into this paradise. He plucked the sweetest bud that grew

there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampled it in the mire beneath his

feet. George Selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished Confederate

Colonel, was this human fiend. He deceived her with a mock marriage;

after some months he brutally, abandoned her, and spurned her as if she

were a contemptible thing; all the time he had a wife in New Orleans.

Laura was crushed. For weeks, as I shall show you by the testimony of

her adopted mother and brother, she hovered over death in delirium.

Gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this delirium? I shall show you that

when she recovered her health, her mind was changed, she was not what she

had been. You can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever

recovered its throne.

"Years pass. She is in Washington, apparently the happy favorite of a

brilliant society. Her family have become enormously rich by one of

those sudden turns, in fortune that the inhabitants of America are

familiar with--the discovery of immense mineral wealth in some wild lands

owned by them. She is engaged in a vast philanthropic scheme for the

benefit of the poor, by, the use of this wealth. But, alas, even here

and now, the same, relentless fate pursued her. The villain Selby

appears again upon the scene, as if on purpose to complete the ruin of

her life. He appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened

exposure if she did not become again the mistress of his passion.

Gentlemen, do you wonder if this woman, thus pursued, lost her reason,

was beside herself with fear, and that her wrongs preyed upon her mind

until she was no longer responsible for her acts? I turn away my head as

one who would not willingly look even upon the just vengeance of Heaven.

(Mr. Braham paused as if overcome by his emotions. Mrs. Hawkins and

Washington were in tears, as were many of the spectators also. The jury

looked scared.)

"Gentlemen, in this condition of affairs it needed but a spark--I do not

say a suggestion, I do not say a hint--from this butterfly Brierly; this

rejected rival, to cause the explosion. I make no charges, but if this

woman was in her right mind when she fled from Washington and reached

this city in company--with Brierly, then I do not know what insanity is."

When Mr. Braham sat down, he felt that he had the jury with him. A burst

of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed. Laura,

with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful look upon her counsel. All the

women among the spectators saw the tears and wept also. They thought as

they also looked at Mr. Braham; how handsome he is!

Mrs. Hawkins took the stand. She was somewhat confused to be the target

of so many, eyes, but her honest and good face at once told in Laura's

favor.

"Mrs. Hawkins," said Mr. Braham, "will you' be kind enough to state the

circumstances of your finding Laura?"

"I object," said Mr. McFlinn; rising to his feet. "This has nothing

whatever to do with the case, your honor. I am surprised at it, even

after the extraordinary speech of my learned friend."

"How do you propose to connect it, Mr. Braham?" asked the judge.

"If it please the court," said Mr. Braham, rising impressively, "your

Honor has permitted the prosecution, and I have submitted without a word;

to go into the most extraordinary testimony to establish a motive. Are

we to be shut out from showing that the motive attributed to us could not

by reason of certain mental conditions exist? I purpose, may, it please

your Honor, to show the cause and the origin of an aberration of mind,

to follow it up, with other like evidence, connecting it with the very

moment of the homicide, showing a condition of the intellect, of the

prisoner that precludes responsibility."

"The State must insist upon its objections," said the District Attorney.

"The purpose evidently is to open the door to a mass of irrelevant

testimony, the object of which is to produce an effect upon the jury your

Honor well understands."

"Perhaps," suggested the judge, "the court ought to hear the testimony,

and exclude it afterwards, if it is irrelevant."

"Will your honor hear argument on that!"

"Certainly."

And argument his honor did hear, or pretend to, for two whole days,

from all the counsel in turn, in the course of which the lawyers read

contradictory decisions enough to perfectly establish both sides, from

volume after volume, whole libraries in fact, until no mortal man could

say what the rules were. The question of insanity in all its legal

aspects was of course drawn into the discussion, and its application

affirmed and denied. The case was felt to turn upon the admission or

rejection of this evidence. It was a sort of test trial of strength

between the lawyers. At the end the judge decided to admit the

testimony, as the judge usually does in such cases, after a sufficient

waste of time in what are called arguments.

Mrs. Hawkins was allowed to go on.

CHAPTER LVI.

Mrs. Hawkins slowly and conscientiously, as if every detail of her family

history was important, told the story of the steamboat explosion, of the

finding and adoption of Laura. Silas, that its Mr. Hawkins, and she

always loved Laura, as if she had been their own, child.

She then narrated the circumstances of Laura's supposed marriage, her

abandonment and long illness, in a manner that touched all hearts. Laura

had been a different woman since then.

Cross-examined. At the time of first finding Laura on the steamboat,

did she notice that Laura's mind was at all deranged? She couldn't say

that she did. After the recovery of Laura from her long illness, did

Mrs. Hawkins think there, were any signs of insanity about her? Witness

confessed that she did not think of it then.

Re-Direct examination. "But she was different after that?"

"O, yes, sir."

Washington Hawkins corroborated his mother's testimony as to Laura's

connection with Col. Selby. He was at Harding during the time of her

living there with him. After Col. Selby's desertion she was almost dead,

never appeared to know anything rightly for weeks. He added that he

never saw such a scoundrel as Selby. (Checked by District attorney.)

Had he noticed any change in, Laura after her illness? Oh, yes.

Whenever, any allusion was made that might recall Selby to mind, she

looked awful--as if she could kill him.

"You mean," said Mr. Braham, "that there was an unnatural, insane gleam

in her eyes?"

"Yes, certainly," said Washington in confusion.

All this was objected to by the district attorney, but it was got before

the jury, and Mr. Braham did not care how much it was ruled out after

that.

"Beriah Sellers was the next witness called. The Colonel made his way to

the stand with majestic, yet bland deliberation. Having taken the oath

and kissed the Bible with a smack intended to show his great respect for

that book, he bowed to his Honor with dignity, to the jury with

familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers and stood in an attitude of

superior attention.

"Mr. Sellers, I believe?" began Mr. Braham.

"Beriah Sellers, Missouri," was the courteous acknowledgment that the

lawyer was correct.

"Mr. Sellers; you know the parties here, you are a friend of the family?"

"Know them all, from infancy, sir. It was me, sir, that induced Silas

Hawkins, Judge Hawkins, to come to Missouri, and make his fortune.

It was by my advice and in company with me, sir, that he went into the

operation of--"

"Yes, yes. Mr. Sellers, did you know a Major Lackland?"

"Knew him, well, sir, knew him and honored him, sir. He was one of the

most remarkable men of our country, sir. A member of congress. He was

often at my mansion sir, for weeks. He used to say to me, 'Col. Sellers,

if you would go into politics, if I had you for a colleague, we should

show Calhoun and Webster that the brain of the country didn't lie east of

the Alleganies. But I said--"

"Yes, yes. I believe Major Lackland is not living, Colonel?"

There was an almost imperceptible sense of pleasure betrayed in the

Colonel's face at this prompt acknowledgment of his title.

"Bless you, no. Died years ago, a miserable death, sir, a ruined man,

a poor sot. He was suspected of selling his vote in Congress, and

probably he did; the disgrace killed' him, he was an outcast, sir,

loathed by himself and by his constituents. And I think; sir"----

The Judge. "You will confine yourself, Col. Sellers to the questions of

the counsel."

"Of course, your honor. This," continued the Colonel in confidential

explanation, "was twenty years ago. I shouldn't have thought of referring

to such a trifling circumstance now. If I remember rightly, sir"--

A bundle of letters was here handed to the witness.

"Do you recognize, that hand-writing?"

"As if it was my own, sir. It's Major Lackland's. I was knowing to these

letters when Judge Hawkins received them. [The Colonel's memory was a

little at fault here. Mr. Hawkins had never gone into detail's with him

on this subject.] He used to show them to me, and say, 'Col, Sellers

you've a mind to untangle this sort of thing.' Lord, how everything

comes back to me. Laura was a little thing then. 'The Judge and I were

just laying our plans to buy the Pilot Knob, and--"

"Colonel, one moment. Your Honor, we put these letters in evidence."

The letters were a portion of the correspondence of Major Lackland with

Silas Hawkins; parts of them were missing and important letters were

referred to that were not here. They related, as the reader knows, to

Laura's father. Lackland had come upon the track of a man who was

searching for a lost child in a Mississippi steamboat explosion years

before. The man was lame in one leg, and appeared to be flitting from

place to place. It seemed that Major Lackland got so close track of him

that he was able to describe his personal appearance and learn his name.

But the letter containing these particulars was lost. Once he heard of

him at a hotel in Washington; but the man departed, leaving an empty

trunk, the day before the major went there. There was something very

mysterious in all his movements.

Col. Sellers, continuing his testimony, said that he saw this lost

letter, but could not now recall the name. Search for the supposed

father had been continued by Lackland, Hawkins and himself for several

years, but Laura was not informed of it till after the death of Hawkins,

for fear of raising false hopes in her mind.

Here the Distract Attorney arose and said,

"Your Honor, I must positively object to letting the witness wander off

into all these irrelevant details."

Mr. Braham. "I submit your honor, that we cannot be interrupted in this

manner we have suffered the state to have full swing. Now here is a

witness, who has known the prisoner from infancy, and is competent to

testify upon the one point vital to her safety. Evidently he is a

gentleman of character, and his knowledge of the case cannot be shut out

without increasing the aspect of persecution which the State's attitude

towards the prisoner already has assumed."

The wrangle continued, waxing hotter and hotter. The Colonel seeing the

attention of the counsel and Court entirely withdrawn from him, thought

he perceived here his opportunity, turning and beaming upon the jury, he

began simply to talk, but as the grandeur of his position grew upon him

--talk broadened unconsciously into an oratorical vein.

"You see how she was situated, gentlemen; poor child, it might have

broken her, heart to let her mind get to running on such a thing as that.

You see, from what we could make out her father was lame in the left leg

and had a deep scar on his left forehead. And so ever since the day she

found out she had another father, she never could, run across a lame

stranger without being taken all over with a shiver, and almost fainting

where she, stood. And the next minute she would go right after that man.

Once she stumbled on a stranger with a game leg; and she was the most

grateful thing in this world--but it was the wrong leg, and it was days

and days before she could leave her bed. Once she found a man with a scar

on his forehead and she was just going to throw herself into his arms,`

but he stepped out just then, and there wasn't anything the matter with

his legs. Time and time again, gentlemen of the jury, has this poor

suffering orphan flung herself on her knees with all her heart's

gratitude in her eyes before some scarred and crippled veteran, but

always, always to be disappointed, always to be plunged into new

despair--if his legs were right his scar was wrong, if his scar was right

his legs were wrong. Never could find a man that would fill the bill.

Gentlemen of the jury; you have hearts, you have feelings, you have warm

human sympathies; you can feel for this poor suffering child. Gentlemen

of the jury, if I had time, if I had the opportunity, if I might be

permitted to go on and tell you the thousands and thousands and thousands

of mutilated strangers this poor girl has started out of cover, and

hunted from city to city, from state to state, from continent to

continent, till she has run them down and found they wan't the ones; I

know your hearts--"

By this time the Colonel had become so warmed up, that his voice, had

reached a pitch above that of the contending counsel; the lawyers

suddenly stopped, and they and the Judge turned towards the Colonel and

remained far several seconds too surprised at this novel exhibition to

speak. In this interval of silence, an appreciation of the situation

gradually stole over the, audience, and an explosion of laughter

followed, in which even the Court and the bar could hardly keep from

joining.

Sheriff. "Order in the Court."

The Judge. "The witness will confine his remarks to answers to

questions."

The Colonel turned courteously to the Judge and said,

"Certainly, your Honor--certainly. I am not well acquainted with the

forms of procedure in the courts of New York, but in the West, sir, in

the West--"

The Judge. "There, there, that will do, that will do!

"You see, your Honor, there were no questions asked me, and I thought I

would take advantage of the lull in the proceedings to explain to the,

jury a very significant train of--"

The Judge. "That will DO sir! Proceed Mr. Braham."

"Col. Sellers, have you any, reason to suppose that this man is still

living?"

"Every reason, sir, every reason.

"State why"

"I have never heard of his death, sir. It has never come to my

knowledge. In fact, sir, as I once said to Governor--"

"Will you state to the jury what has been the effect of the knowledge of

this wandering and evidently unsettled being, supposed to be her father,

upon the mind of Miss Hawkins for so many years!"

Question objected to. Question ruled out.

Cross-examined. "Major Sellers, what is your occupation?"

The Colonel looked about him loftily, as if casting in his mind what

would be the proper occupation of a person of such multifarious interests

and then said with dignity:

"A gentleman, sir. My father used to always say, sir"--

"Capt. Sellers, did you; ever see this man, this supposed father?"

"No, Sir. But upon one occasion, old Senator Thompson said to me, its my

opinion, Colonel Sellers"--

"Did you ever see any body who had seen him?"

"No, sir: It was reported around at one time, that"--

"That is all."

The defense then sent a day in the examination of medical experts in

insanity who testified, on the evidence heard, that sufficient causes had

occurred to produce an insane mind in the prisoner. Numerous cases were

cited to sustain this opinion. There was such a thing as momentary

insanity, in which the person, otherwise rational to all appearances,

was for the time actually bereft of reason, and not responsible for his

acts. The causes of this momentary possession could often be found in

the person's life. [It afterwards came out that the chief expert for the

defense, was paid a thousand dollars for looking into the case.]

The prosecution consumed another day in the examination of experts

refuting the notion of insanity. These causes might have produced

insanity, but there was no evidence that they have produced it in this

case, or that the prisoner was not at the time of the commission of the

crime in full possession of her ordinary faculties.

The trial had now lasted two weeks. It required four days now for the

lawyers to "sum up." These arguments of the counsel were very important

to their friends, and greatly enhanced their reputation at the bar but

they have small interest to us. Mr. Braham in his closing speech

surpassed himself; his effort is still remembered as the greatest in the

criminal annals of New York.

Mr. Braham re-drew for the jury the picture, of Laura's early life; he

dwelt long upon that painful episode of the pretended marriage and the

desertion. Col. Selby, he said, belonged, gentlemen; to what is called

the "upper classes:" It is the privilege of the "upper classes" to prey

upon the sons and daughters of the people. The Hawkins family, though

allied to the best blood of the South, were at the time in humble

circumstances. He commented upon her parentage. Perhaps her agonized

father, in his intervals of sanity, was still searching for his lost

daughter. Would he one day hear that she had died a felon's death?

Society had pursued her, fate had pursued her, and in a moment of

delirium she had turned and defied fate and society. He dwelt upon the

admission of base wrong in Col. Selby's dying statement. He drew a

vivid, picture of the villain at last overtaken by the vengeance of

Heaven. Would the jury say that this retributive justice, inflicted by

an outraged, and deluded woman, rendered irrational by the most cruel

wrongs, was in the nature of a foul, premeditated murder? "Gentlemen;

it is enough for me to look upon the life of this most beautiful and

accomplished of her sex, blasted by the heartless villainy of man,

without seeing, at the-end of it; the horrible spectacle of a gibbet.

Gentlemen, we are all human, we have all sinned, we all have need of

mercy. But I do not ask mercy of you who are the guardians of society

and of the poor waifs, its sometimes wronged victims; I ask only that

justice which you and I shall need in that last, dreadful hour, when

death will be robbed of half its terrors if we can reflect that we have

never wronged a human being. Gentlemen, the life of this lovely and once

happy girl, this now stricken woman, is in your hands."

The jury were risibly affected. Half the court room was in tears. If a

vote of both spectators and jury could have been taken then, the verdict

would have been, "let her go, she has suffered enough."

But the district attorney had the closing argument. Calmly and without

malice or excitement he reviewed the testimony. As the cold facts were

unrolled, fear settled upon the listeners. There was no escape from the

murder or its premeditation. Laura's character as a lobbyist in

Washington which had been made to appear incidentally in the evidence was

also against her: the whole body of the testimony of the defense was

shown to be irrelevant, introduced only to excite sympathy, and not

giving a color of probability to the absurd supposition of insanity.

The attorney then dwelt upon, the insecurity of life in the city, and the

growing immunity with which women committed murders. Mr. McFlinn made a

very able speech; convincing the reason without touching the feelings.

The Judge in his charge reviewed the, testimony with great show of

impartiality. He ended by saying that the verdict must be acquittal or

murder in the first, degree. If you find that the prisoner committed a

homicide, in possession of her reason and with premeditation, your

verdict will be accordingly. If you find she was not in her right mind,

that she was the victim of insanity, hereditary or momentary, as it has

been explained, your verdict will take that into account.

As the Judge finished his charge, the spectators anxiously watched the

faces of the jury. It was not a remunerative study. In the court room

the general feeling was in favor of Laura, but whether this feeling

extended to the jury, their stolid faces did not reveal. The public

outside hoped for a conviction, as it always does; it wanted an example;

the newspapers trusted the jury would have the courage to do its duty.

When Laura was convicted, then the public would tern around and abuse the

governor if he did; not pardon her.

The jury went out. Mr. Braham preserved his serene confidence, but

Laura's friends were dispirited. Washington and Col. Sellers had been

obliged to go to Washington, and they had departed under the unspoken

fear the verdict would be unfavorable, a disagreement was the best they

could hope for, and money was needed. The necessity of the passage of

the University bill was now imperative.

The Court waited, for, some time, but the jury gave no signs of coming

in. Mr. Braham said it was extraordinary. The Court then took a recess

for a couple of hours. Upon again coming in, word was brought that the

jury had not yet agreed.

But the, jury, had a question. The point upon which, they wanted

instruction was this. They wanted to know if Col. Sellers was related to

the Hawkins family. The court then adjourned till morning.

Mr. Braham, who was in something of a pet, remarked to Mr. O'Toole that

they must have been deceived, that juryman with the broken nose could

read!

CHAPTER LVII.

The momentous day was at hand--a day that promised to make or mar the

fortunes of Hawkins family for all time. Washington Hawkins and Col.

Sellers were both up early, for neither of them could sleep. Congress

was expiring, and was passing bill after bill as if they were gasps and

each likely to be its last. The University was on file for its third

reading this day, and to-morrow Washington would be a millionaire and

Sellers no longer, impecunious but this day, also, or at farthest the

next, the jury in Laura's Case would come to a decision of some kind or

other--they would find her guilty, Washington secretly feared, and then

the care and the trouble would all come back again, and these would be

wearing months of besieging judges for new trials; on this day, also, the

re-election of Mr. Dilworthy to the Senate would take place. So

Washington's mind was in a state of turmoil; there were more interests at

stake than it could handle with serenity. He exulted when he thought of

his millions; he was filled with dread when he thought of Laura. But

Sellers was excited and happy. He said:

"Everything is going right, everything's going perfectly right. Pretty

soon the telegrams will begin to rattle in, and then you'll see, my boy.

Let the jury do what they please; what difference is it going to make?

To-morrow we can send a million to New York and set the lawyers at work

on the judges; bless your heart they will go before judge after judge and

exhort and beseech and pray and shed tears. They always do; and they

always win, too. And they will win this time. They will get a writ of

habeas corpus, and a stay of proceedings, and a supersedeas, and a new

trial and a nolle prosequi, and there you are! That's the routine, and

it's no trick at all to a New York lawyer. That's the regular routine

--everything's red tape and routine in the law, you see; it's all Greek

to you, of course, but to a man who is acquainted with those things it's

mere--I'll explain it to you sometime. Everything's going to glide right

along easy and comfortable now. You'll see, Washington, you'll see how

it will be. And then, let me think ..... Dilwortby will be elected

to-day, and by day, after to-morrow night be will be in New York ready to

put in his shovel--and you haven't lived in Washington all this time not

to know that the people who walk right by a Senator whose term is up

without hardly seeing him will be down at the deepo to say 'Welcome back

and God bless you; Senator, I'm glad to see you, sir!' when he comes

along back re-elected, you know. Well, you see, his influence was

naturally running low when he left here, but now he has got a new

six-years' start, and his suggestions will simply just weigh a couple of

tons a-piece day after tomorrow. Lord bless you he could rattle through

that habeas corpus and supersedeas and all those things for Laura all by

himself if he wanted to, when he gets back."

"I hadn't thought of that," said Washington, brightening, but it is so.

A newly-elected Senator is a power, I know that."

"Yes indeed he is.--Why it, is just human nature. Look at me. When we

first came here, I was Mr. Sellers, and Major Sellers, Captain Sellers,

but nobody could ever get it right, somehow; but the minute our bill

went, through the House, I was Col. Sellers every time. And nobody could

do enough for me, and whatever I said was wonderful, Sir, it was always

wonderful; I never seemed to say any flat things at all. It was Colonel,

won't you come and dine with us; and Colonel why don't we ever see you at

our house; and the Colonel says this; and the Colonel says that; and we

know such-and-such is so-and-so because my husband heard Col. Sellers say

so. Don't you see? Well, the Senate adjourned and left our bill high,

and dry, and I'll be hanged if I warn't Old Sellers from that day, till

our bill passed the House again last week. Now I'm the Colonel again;

and if I were to eat all the dinners I am invited to, I reckon I'd wear

my teeth down level with my gums in a couple of weeks."

"Well I do wonder what you will be to-morrow; Colonel, after the

President signs the bill!"

"General, sir?--General, without a doubt. Yes, sir, tomorrow it will be

General, let me congratulate you, sir; General, you've done a great work,

sir;--you've done a great work for the niggro; Gentlemen allow me the

honor to introduce my friend General Sellers, the humane friend of the

niggro. Lord bless me; you'll' see the newspapers say, General Sellers

and servants arrived in the city last night and is stopping at the Fifth

Avenue; and General Sellers has accepted a reception and banquet by the

Cosmopolitan Club; you'll see the General's opinions quoted, too

--and what the General has to say about the propriety of a new trial and

a habeas corpus for the unfortunate Miss Hawkins will not be without

weight in influential quarters, I can tell you."

"And I want to be the first to shake your faithful old hand and salute

you with your new honors, and I want to do it now--General!" said

Washington, suiting the action to the word, and accompanying it with all

the meaning that a cordial grasp and eloquent eyes could give it.

The Colonel was touched; he was pleased and proud, too; his face answered

for that.

Not very long after breakfast the telegrams began to arrive. The first

was from Braham, and ran thus:

"We feel certain that the verdict will be rendered to-day. Be it

good or bad, let it find us ready to make the next move instantly,

whatever it may be:"

"That's the right talk," said Sellers. "That Graham's a wonderful man.

He was the only man there that really understood me; he told me so

himself, afterwards."

The next telegram was from Mr. Dilworthy:

"I have not only brought over the Great Invincible, but through him

a dozen more of the opposition. Shall be re-elected to-day by an

overwhelming majority."

"Good again!" said the Colonel. "That man's talent for organization is

something marvelous. He wanted me to go out there and engineer that

thing, but I said, No, Dilworthy, I must be on hand here,--both on

Laura's account and the bill's--but you've no trifling genius for

organization yourself, said I--and I was right. You go ahead, said I

--you can fix it--and so he has. But I claim no credit for that--if I

stiffened up his back-bone a little, I simply put him in the way to make

his fight--didn't undertake it myself. He has captured Noble--.

I consider that a splendid piece of diplomacy--Splendid, Sir!"

By and by came another dispatch from New York:

"Jury still out. Laura calm and firm as a statue. The report that the

jury have brought her in guilty is false and premature."

"Premature!" gasped Washington, turning white. "Then they all expect

that sort of a verdict, when it comes in."

And so did he; but he had not had courage enough to put it into words.

He had been preparing himself for the worst, but after all his

preparation the bare suggestion of the possibility of such a verdict

struck him cold as death.

The friends grew impatient, now; the telegrams did not come fast enough:

even the lightning could not keep up with their anxieties. They walked

the floor talking disjointedly and listening for the door-bell. Telegram

after telegram came. Still no result. By and by there was one which

contained a single line:

"Court now coming in after brief recess to hear verdict. Jury ready."

"Oh, I wish they would finish!" said Washington. "This suspense is

killing me by inches!"

Then came another telegram:

"Another hitch somewhere. Jury want a little more time and further

instructions."

"Well, well, well, this is trying," said the Colonel. And after a pause,

"No dispatch from Dilworthy for two hours, now. Even a dispatch from him

would be better than nothing, just to vary this thing."

They waited twenty minutes. It seemed twenty hours.

"Come!" said Washington. "I can't wait for the telegraph boy to come all

the way up here. Let's go down to Newspaper Row--meet him on the way."

While they were passing along the Avenue, they saw someone putting up a

great display-sheet on the bulletin board of a newspaper office, and an

eager crowd of men was collecting abort the place. Washington and the

Colonel ran to the spot and read this:

"Tremendous Sensation! Startling news from Saint's Rest! On first ballot

for U. S. Senator, when voting was about to begin, Mr. Noble rose in his

place and drew forth a package, walked forward and laid it on the

Speaker's desk, saying, 'This contains $7,000 in bank bills and was given

me by Senator Dilworthy in his bed-chamber at midnight last night to buy

--my vote for him--I wish the Speaker to count the money and retain it to

pay the expense of prosecuting this infamous traitor for bribery. The

whole legislature was stricken speechless with dismay and astonishment.

Noble further said that there were fifty members present with money in

their pockets, placed there by Dilworthy to buy their votes. Amidst

unparalleled excitement the ballot was now taken, and J. W. Smith elected

U. S. Senator; Dilworthy receiving not one vote! Noble promises damaging

exposures concerning Dilworthy and certain measures of his now pending in

Congress.

"Good heavens and earth!" exclaimed the Colonel.

"To the Capitol!" said Washington. "Fly!"

And they did fly. Long before they got there the newsboys were running

ahead of them with Extras, hot from the press, announcing the astounding

news.

Arrived in the gallery of the Senate, the friends saw a curious spectacle

very Senator held an Extra in his hand and looked as interested as if it

contained news of the destruction of the earth. Not a single member was

paying the least attention to the business of the hour.

The Secretary, in a loud voice, was just beginning to read the title of a

bill:

"House-Bill--No. 4,231,--An-Act-to-Found-and-Incorporate-the Knobs-

Industrial-University!--Read-first-and-second-time-considered-in-

committee-of-the-whole-ordered-engrossed and-passed-to-third-reading-and-

final passage!"

The President--"Third reading of the bill!"

The two friends shook in their shoes. Senators threw down their extras

and snatched a word or two with each other in whispers. Then the gavel

rapped to command silence while the names were called on the ayes and

nays. Washington grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker while the

lagging list progressed; and when it was finished, his head fell

helplessly forward on his arms. The fight was fought, the long struggle

was over, and he was a pauper. Not a man had voted for the bill!

Col. Sellers was bewildered and well nigh paralyzed, himself. But no man

could long consider his own troubles in the presence of such suffering as

Washington's. He got him up and supported him--almost carried him

indeed--out of the building and into a carriage. All the way home

Washington lay with his face against the Colonel's shoulder and merely

groaned and wept. The Colonel tried as well as he could under the dreary

circumstances to hearten him a little, but it was of no use. Washington

was past all hope of cheer, now. He only said:

"Oh, it is all over--it is all over for good, Colonel. We must beg our

bread, now. We never can get up again. It was our last chance, and it

is gone. They will hang Laura! My God they will hang her! Nothing can

save the poor girl now. Oh, I wish with all my soul they would hang me

instead!"

Arrived at home, Washington fell into a chair and buried his face in his

hands and gave full way to his misery. The Colonel did not know where to

turn nor what to do. The servant maid knocked at the door and passed in

a telegram, saying it had come while they were gone.

The Colonel tore it open and read with the voice of a man-of-war's

broadside:

"VERDICT OF JURY, NOT GUILTY AND LAURA IS FREE!"

CHAPTER LVIII.

The court room was packed on the morning on which the verdict of the jury

was expected, as it had been every day of the trial, and by the same

spectators, who had followed its progress with such intense interest.

There is a delicious moment of excitement which the frequenter of trials

well knows, and which he would not miss for the world. It is that

instant when the foreman of the jury stands up to give the verdict,

and before he has opened his fateful lips.

The court assembled and waited. It was an obstinate jury.

It even had another question--this intelligent jury--to ask the judge

this morning.

The question was this: "Were the doctors clear that the deceased had no

disease which might soon have carried him off, if he had not been shot?"

There was evidently one jury man who didn't want to waste life, and was

willing to stake a general average, as the jury always does in a civil

case, deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the verdict by

some occult mental process.

During the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled patience, finding

amusement and relief in the slightest movements of the court, the

prisoner and the lawyers. Mr. Braham divided with Laura the attention

of the house. Bets were made by the Sheriff's deputies on the verdict,

with large odds in favor of a disagreement.

It was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was coming in.

The reporters took their places and were all attention; the judge and

lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swayed and pushed in eager

expectancy, as the jury walked in and stood up in silence.

Judge. "Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?"

Foreman. "We have."

Judge. "What is it?"

Foreman. "NOT GUILTY."

A shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of cheering which the

court in vain attempted to quell. For a few moments all order was lost.

The spectators crowded within the bar and surrounded Laura who, calmer

than anyone else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost fainted

from excess of joy.

And now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no fiction-writer

would dare to imagine, a scene of touching pathos, creditable to our

fallen humanity. In the eyes of the women of the audience Mr. Braham was

the hero of the occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and

besides he was such a handsome man. The women could not restrain their

long pent-up emotions. They threw themselves upon Mr. Braham in a

transport of gratitude; they kissed him again and again, the young as

well as the advanced in years, the married as well as the ardent single

women; they improved the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in

the words of a newspaper of the day they "lavished him with kisses."

It was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a woman to

remember in after years, that she had kissed Braham! Mr. Braham himself

received these fond assaults with the gallantry of his nation, enduring

the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty in its own coin.

This beautiful scene is still known in New York as "the kissing of

Braham."

When the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself, and order

was restored, Judge O'Shaunnessy said that it now became his duty to

provide for the proper custody and treatment of the acquitted. The

verdict of the jury having left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound

mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community,

she could not be permitted to go at large. "In accordance with the

directions of the law in such cases," said the Judge, "and in obedience

to the dictates of a wise humanity, I hereby commit Laura Hawkins to the

care of the Superintendent of the State Hospital for Insane Criminals, to

be held in confinement until the State Commissioners on Insanity shall

order her discharge. Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at once to the

execution of this decree."

Laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken. She had expected to walk

forth in freedom in a few moments. The revulsion was terrible. Her

mother appeared like one shaken with an ague fit. Laura insane! And

about to be locked up with madmen! She had never contemplated this.

Mr. Graham said he should move at once for a writ of 'habeas corpus'.

But the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must have its way.

As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not fully comprehending it,

Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by the officer.

With little space for thought she was, rapidly driven to the railway

station, and conveyed to the Hospital for Lunatic Criminals. It was only

when she was within this vast and grim abode of madness that she realized

the horror of her situation. It was only when she was received by the

kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless

incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it

was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and

saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose

dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the

small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook

her. She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone--she had been

searched by the matron--and tried to think. But her brain was in a

whirl. She recalled Braham's speech, she recalled the testimony

regarding her lunacy. She wondered if she were not mad; she felt that

she soon should be among these loathsome creatures. Better almost to

have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement.

--We beg the reader's pardon. This is not history, which has just been

written. It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel.

If this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of Laura

otherwise. True art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required

it. The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess

could not escape condemnation. Besides, the safety of society, the

decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization,

all would demand that Laura should be disposed of in the manner we have

described. Foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to

understand any other termination of it.

But this is history and not fiction. There is no such law or custom as

that to which his Honor is supposed to have referred; Judge O'Shaunnessy

would not probably pay any attention to it if there were. There is no

Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy.

What actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the

sagacious reader will now learn.

Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends,

amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she

entered a carriage, and drove away. How sweet was the sunlight, how

exhilarating the sense of freedom! Were not these following cheers the

expression of popular approval and affection? Was she not the heroine of

the hour?

It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her hotel, a scornful

feeling of victory over society with its own weapons.

Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the

disgrace and the long anxiety.

"Thank God, Laura," she said, "it is over. Now we will go away from this

hateful city. Let us go home at once."

"Mother," replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness, "I cannot go with

you. There, don't cry, I cannot go back to that life."

Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing. This was more cruel than anything else, for

she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave Laura to herself.

"No, mother, you have been everything to me. You know how dearly I love

you. But I cannot go back."

A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. Laura took it and read:

"The bill is lost. Dilworthy ruined. (Signed) WASHINGTON."

For a moment the words swam before her eyes. The next her eyes flashed

fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said,

"The world is against me. Well, let it be, let it. I am against it."

"This is a cruel disappointment," said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief

more or less did not much matter now, "to you and, Washington; but we

must humbly bear it."

"Bear it;" replied Laura scornfully, "I've all my life borne it, and fate

has thwarted me at every step."

A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who

wished to speak with Miss Hawkins. "J. Adolphe Griller" was the name

Laura read on the card. "I do not know such a person. He probably comes

from Washington. Send him up."

Mr. Griller entered. He was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone

confidential, his manner wholly void of animation, all his features below

the forehead protruding--particularly the apple of his throat--hair

without a kink in it, a hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance.

a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible sign about

him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling, the truth was that

he had the brains to plan great enterprises and the pluck to carry them

through. That was his reputation, and it was a deserved one. He softly

said:

"I called to see you on business, Miss Hawkins. You have my card?"

Laura bowed.

Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as before.

"I will proceed to business. I am a business man. I am a lecture-agent,

Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you were acquitted, it occurred

to me that an early interview would be mutually beneficial."

"I don't understand you, sir," said Laura coldly.

"No? You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity. If you will enter

the lecture field under good auspices, you will carry everything before

you."

"But, sir, I never lectured, I haven't any lecture, I don't know anything

about it."

"Ah, madam, that makes no difference--no real difference. It is not

necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into the lecture tour.

If ones name is celebrated all over the land, especially, and, if she is

also beautiful, she is certain to draw large audiences."

"But what should I lecture about?" asked Laura, beginning in spite of

herself to be a little interested as well as amused.

"Oh, why; woman--something about woman, I should say; the marriage

relation, woman's fate, anything of that sort. Call it The Revelations

of a Woman's Life; now, there's a good title. I wouldn't want any better

title than that. I'm prepared to make you an offer, Miss Hawkins,

a liberal offer,--twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights."

Laura thought. She hesitated. Why not? It would give her employment,

money. She must do something.

"I will think of it, and let you know soon. But still, there is very

little likelihood that I--however, we will not discuss it further now."

"Remember, that the sooner we get to work the better, Miss Hawkins,

public curiosity is so fickle. Good day, madam."

The close of the trial released Mr. Harry Brierly and left him free to

depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coast mission. He was very

mysterious about it, even to Philip.

"It's confidential, old boy," he said, "a little scheme we have hatched

up. I don't mind telling you that it's a good deal bigger thing than

that in Missouri, and a sure thing. I wouldn't take a half a million

just for my share. And it will open something for you, Phil. You will

hear from me."

Philip did hear, from Harry a few months afterward. Everything promised

splendidly, but there was a little delay. Could Phil let him have a

hundred, say, for ninety days?

Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, and, as soon as the spring

opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began transforming the loan he had

received from Squire Montague into laborers' wages. He was haunted with

many anxieties; in the first place, Ruth was overtaxing her strength in

her hospital labors, and Philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth

to save her from such toil and suffering. His increased pecuniary

obligation oppressed him. It seemed to him also that he had been one

cause of the misfortune to the Bolton family, and that he was dragging

into loss and ruin everybody who associated with him. He worked on day

after day and week after week, with a feverish anxiety.

It would be wicked, thought Philip, and impious, to pray for luck; he

felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing upon the sort of labor

that was only a venture; but yet in that daily petition, which this very

faulty and not very consistent young Christian gentleman put up, he

prayed earnestly enough for Ruth and for the Boltons and for those whom

he loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be a

misfortune to them and a failure to himself.

Since this young fellow went out into the world from his New England

home, he had done some things that he would rather his mother should not

know, things maybe that he would shrink from telling Ruth. At a certain

green age young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milksops,

and Philip's associates had not always been the most select, such as

these historians would have chosen for him, or whom at a later, period he

would have chosen for himself. It seemed inexplicable, for instance,

that his life should have been thrown so much with his college

acquaintance, Henry Brierly.

Yet, this was true of Philip, that in whatever company he had been he had

never been ashamed to stand up for the principles he learned from his

mother, and neither raillery nor looks of wonder turned him from that

daily habit had learned at his mother's knees.--Even flippant Harry

respected this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why Harry and all

who knew Philip trusted him implicitly. And yet it must be confessed

that Philip did not convey the impression to the world of a very serious

young man, or of a man who might not rather easily fall into temptation.

One looking for a real hero would have to go elsewhere.