Mr. Balais smiled triumphantly at the jury.  “Did I not tell you,” he seemed to say, “that my client is guiltless in this matter?  Here is Truth herself come to witness in his favor.  Bless her!” Richard’s feverish eyes were fixed upon her; he knew no God, but here was his spring in the wilderness, his shadow of the great rock in a weary land.  As for her, she looked only at the judge, expecting—­poor little ignoramus—­that it was he who would question her.

“You are the daughter of John Trevethick, of Gethin?” said Mr. Balais.

This interrogatory, simple as it was, made her color rise, coming from that unexpected quarter.

“Yes, Sir.”

“He keeps an inn, does he not; the”—­here Mr. Balais affected to consult his brief, to give her time to recover herself from her modest confusion—­“the Gethin Castle, I believe?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The prisoner at the bar has been staying there for some months, has he not?”

She stole another look at Richard:  it spoke as plainly as looks could speak, “Oh yes; that is how I came to know and love him.”  But she only murmured, “Yes, Sir.”

“Speak up, Miss Trevethick,” said the counsel, encouragingly; “these twelve gentlemen are all very anxious to hear what you have to say.”  The judge nodded and smiled, as though in corroboration, as well as to add, upon his own account, that it would give him also much pleasure to hear her.

“Was the prisoner staying in the inn as an ordinary guest, or did he mix with the family?”

“He was in the bar parlor most nights, Sir, along with father and me and Solomon.”

“He was in the bar parlor most nights,” repeated Mr. Balais, significantly, for he was anxious that the jury should catch that answer—­“‘With father and me and Solomon.’  And who introduced him into the parlor?”

“Father brought him first, Sir, on the second day after he came to Gethin.”

“Father brought him in, did he?  Now, that is rather an unusual thing for the landlord of an inn to do, is it not?  To introduce a young man whom he had known but twenty-four hours to his family circle, and to the society of his daughter, eh?”

“Please, Sir, I don’t know, Sir.”

“No, of course you don’t, Miss Trevethick; how should you?  But I think the jury know.  You have no idea, then, yourself, why your father introduced this young gentleman to you so early?”

“Father said he was a friend of Mr. Carew’s, of Crompton, who is father’s landlord.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Balais, with another significant glance at the attentive twelve.  “Mr. Trevethick had already discovered that this youth was of a good social position, and likely to prove an excellent match.  ‘Will you walk into my parlor?’ said the spider to the fly; ’I have the prettiest daughter that ever you did spy.’”

Every body tittered at this except Mr. Smoothbore and his solicitor; even the judge blew his nose.