is interlarded with remarks from the judge, who, with seeming satisfaction to all parties, orders the case of B. C. R. K. Marston’s writ of replevin to be called and proceeded with.  “As there are three fi fas,” says the junior attorney for the defendants, a very lean strippling of the law, just working his way up in the world, “I object to the manner of procedure; the case only involves a question of law, and should be submitted to the special decision of the Court.  It is not a matter for a jury to decide upon,” he concludes.  The judge has listened to his remarks, objections, and disclaimers, with marked attention; nevertheless, he is compelled to overrule them, and order the case to proceed.  Upon this it is agreed among the attorneys-happy fellows, always ready to agree or disagree-that a decision taken upon one fi fa shall be held as establishing a decision for all the cases at issue.

The children are now brought into Court, and seated near one of the attorneys.  Marston stands, almost motionless, a few steps back, gazing upon them as intently and solicitously as if the issue were life or death.  Deacon Rosebrook, his good lady, and Franconia, have been summoned as witnesses, and sit by the side of each other on a bench within the bar.  We hear a voice here and there among the crowd of spectators expressing sympathy for the children; others say they are only “niggers,” and can’t be aught else, if it be proved that Marston bought the mother.  And there is Mr. Scranton!  He is well seated among the gentlemen of the legal profession, for whom he has a strong fellow feeling.  He sits, unmoved, in his wonted moodiness; now and then he gives the children a sly look of commiseration, as if the screws of his feelings were unloosing.  They-the little property-look so interesting, so innocent, so worthy of being something more than merchandise in a land of liberty, that Mr. Scranton’s heart has become irresistibly softened.  It gets a few degrees above Mr. Scranton’s constitutional scruples.  “Painful affair this!  What do you think of it, Mr. Scranton?” enquires a member of the profession, touching his arm.

“It is the fruit of Marston’s weakness, you see!-don’t feel just straight, I reckon.  Didn’t understand the philosophy of the law, neither; and finds himself pinched up by a sort of humanity that won’t pass for a legal tender in business-”

“Ah! we cannot always look into the future,” interrupts the attorney.

Mr. Scranton holds that whatever is constitutional must be right and abidable; that one’s feelings never should joggle our better understanding when these little curiosities come in the way.  He admits, however, that they are strange attendants coming up once in a while, like the fluctuations of an occult science.  With him, the constitution gives an indisputable right to overlook every outrage upon natural law; and, while it exists in full force, though it may strip one half the human race of rights, he