Out of respect for a court of justice, however humble, Dr. Staines attended next Monday to meet the summons.

The magistrate was an elderly man, with a face shaped like a hog’s, but much richer in color, being purple and pimply; so foul a visage Staines had rarely seen, even in the lowest class of the community.

Clara swore that her box had been opened, and certain things stolen out of it; and that she had been refused the box next morning.

Staines swore that he had never opened the box, and that, if any one else had, it was with her consent, for she had left the keys for that purpose.  He bade the magistrate observe that if a servant went away like this, and left no address, she put it out of the master’s power to send her box after her; and he proved he had some trouble to force the box on her.

The pig-faced beak showed a manifest leaning towards the servant, but there wasn’t a leg to stand on; and he did not believe, nor was it credible, that anything had been stolen out of her box.

At this moment, Pearman, sent by Rosa, entered the court with an old gown of Clara’s that had been discovered in the scullery, and a scribbling-book of the doctor’s, which Clara had appropriated, and written amorous verses in, very superior—­in number—­to those that have come down to us from Anacreon.

“Hand me those,” said the pig-faced beak.

“What are they, Dr. Staines?”

“I really don’t know.  I must ask my servant.”

“Why, more things of mine that have been detained,” said Clara.

“Some things that have been found since she left,” said Staines.

“Oh! those that hide know where to find.”

“Young woman,” said Staines, “do not insult those whose bread you have eaten, and who have given you many presents besides your wages.  Since you are so ready to accuse people of stealing, permit me to say that this book is mine, and not yours; and yet, you see, it is sent after you because you have written your trash in it.”

The purple, pig-faced beak went instantly out of the record, and wasted a deal of time reading Clara’s poetry, and trying to be witty.  He raised the question whose book this was.  The girl swore that it was given her by a lady who was now in Rome.  Staines swore he bought it of a certain stationer, and happening to have his passbook in his pocket, produced an entry corresponding with the date of the book.

The pig-faced beak said that the doctor’s was an improbable story, and that the gown and the book were quite enough to justify the summons.  Verdict, one guinea costs.

“What, because two things she never demanded have been found and sent after her?  This is monstrous.  I shall appeal to your superiors.”

“If you are impertinent I’ll fine you five pounds.”

“Very well, sir.  Now hear me:  if this is an honest judgment, I pray God I may be dead before the year’s out; and, if it isn’t, I pray God you may be.”