“Because, Delphine, his punishment is abominably disproportioned to his offence.  This letter of the law killeth.  And then I would get him off, if possible, for the sake of his son and the family.  And besides all that, Del, it is not for me to judge, you know, but to defend him.”

“Yes,—­but if you do your best?” I inquired.

“A lawyer never does his best,” he replied, hastily, “unless he succeeds.  He must get his client’s case, or get him off, I must get some sleep to-night,” he added, “and take another pull.  There’s a man on the jury,—­he is the only one who holds out.  I know I don’t get him.  And I know why.  I see it in the cold steel of his eyes.  His sister was left, within a week of their marriage-day, by a scoundrel,—­left, too, to disgrace, as well as desertion,—­and his heart is bitter towards all offences of the sort.  I must get that man somehow!”

He was standing on the steps, as he spoke, and bidding me good-night; but I saw his head and heart were both full of his case, and nothing else.

The words rang in my ear after he went away:  “Within a week of their marriage-day!” In a week we were to have been married.  Thank Heaven, we were still to be married in a week.  And he had spoken of the man as “a scoundrel,” who left her.  America, indeed! what matters it?  Still, there would be the same head, the same heart, the same manliness, strength, nobleness,—­all that a woman can truly honor and love.  Not military, and not a scoundrel; but plain, massive, gentle, direct.  He would do.  And a sense of full happiness pressed up to my very lips, and bubbled over in laughter.

“You are a happy girl, Del.  Mrs. Harris says the court and everybody is talking of Mr. Sampson’s great plea in that Shore case.  Whether he gets it or not, his fortune is made.  They say there hasn’t been such an argument since Webster’s time,—­so irresistible.  It took every body off their feet.”

I did not answer a word,—­only clothed my soul with sackcloth and ashes, and called it good enough for me.

We went to bed.  But in the middle of the night I waked Laura.

“What’s the matter?” said she, springing out of bed.

“Don’t, Laura!—­nothing,” said I.

“Oh, I thought you were ill!  I’ve been sleeping with one eye open, and just dropped away.  What is it?”

“Do lie down, then.  I only wanted to ask you a question.”

“Oh, do go to sleep!  It’s after three o’clock now.  We never shall get up.  Haven’t you been asleep yet?”

“No,—­I’ve been thinking all the time.  But you are impatient.  It’s no matter.  Wait till to-morrow morning.”

“No.  I am awake now.  Tell me, and be done with it, Del.”

“But I shall want your opinion, you know.”

“Oh, will you tell me, Del?”

“Well, it is this.  How do you think a handsome, a very handsome chess-table would do?”