“It’s an awful hour to call,” admitted Franklin under the rumble of the wheels.  “I couldn’t get a carriage, and I hadn’t any horse.  There wasn’t any car.  Forgive me.”

Part of this was open conversation, and Franklin made still further polite concessions to the company.  Yes, he himself was a member of the bar—­a very unworthy one.  He had a relative who was a physician.  A lovely city, this, which they had.  Beautiful old places, these along the way.  A rare and beautiful life, that of these old Southern families.  Delightful, the South.  He had always loved it in so far as he had ever known it, and he felt the better acquainted, having known Miss Beauchamp so well in her former home in the West.  And the Judge said, “Uh-ah!” and the doctor bowed, looking the while with professional admiration at the chest and flank of this brown, powerful man, whose eye smote like a ray from some motor full of compressed energy.

Beyond this it is only to be said that both Judge and doctor were gentlemen, and loyal to beauty in distress.  They both earned Mary Ellen’s love, for they got off eight blocks sooner than they should have done, and walked more than half a mile in the sun before they found a place of rest.

“Oh, well, yessah, Judge,” said Dr. Gregg, half sighing, “we were young once, eh, Judge?—­young once ouhselves.”

“Lucky dog!” said the judge; “lucky dog!  But he seems a gentleman, and if he has propah fam’ly an’ propah resources, it may be, yessah, it may be she’s lucky, too.  Oh, Northehn, yessah, I admit it.  But what would you expeck, sah, in these times?  I’m told theh are some vehy fine people in the No’th.”

“Deep through,” said the doctor, communing with himself.  “Carries his trunk gran’ly.  Splendid creatuah—­splendid!  Have him?  O’ co’se she’ll have him!  What woman wouldn’t?  What a cadaver!  What a subjeck—­”

“Good God! my dear sir!” said the judge.  “Really!”

Meantime the dingy little car was trundling down the wide, sleepy street, both driver and mules now fallen half asleep again.  Here and there a negro sat propped up in the sun, motionless and content.  A clerk stretched an awning over some perishable goods.  A child or two wandered along the walk.  The town clock pointed to half past eleven.  The warm spring sun blazed down.  A big fly buzzed upon the window pane.  No more passengers came to the car, and it trundled slowly and contentedly on its course toward the other end of its route.

Franklin and Mary Ellen sat looking out before them, silent.  At last he turned and placed his hand over the two that lay knit loosely in her lap.  Mary Ellen stirred, her throat moved, but she could not speak.  Franklin leaned forward and looked into her face.

“I knew it must be so,” he whispered quietly.

“What—­what must you think ?” broke out Mary Ellen, angry that she could not resist.