“Will the learned gentleman proceed with the examination of this witness?” says his honour, who, pen in hand, has been waiting several minutes to take down her testimony.  Court and audience, without knowing why, have come to an unconscious pause.

“Will the witness state to the court in what relation she stands to the gentleman who defends title freedom of the children,—­Mr. Hugh Marston?” says the attorney, addressing his bland words to Franconia, somewhat nervously.

“He—­he—­he—­is my—­,” she mutters, and stops.  Her face turns pale; then suddenly changes to glowing crimson.  She rests her left hand on the rail, while the judge, as if suddenly moved by a generous impulse, suggests that the attorney pause a moment, until the deputy provides a chair for the lady.  She is quiet again.  Calmly and modestly, as her soft, meaning eyes wander over the scene before her, compelled to encounter its piercing gaze, the crystal tears leave their wet courses on her blushing cheeks.  Her feelings are too delicate, too sensitive, to withstand the sharp and deadly poison of liberty’s framework of black laws.  She sees her uncle, so kind, so fond of her and her absent brother; her eye meets his in kindred sympathy, imagination wings its way through recollections of the past, draws forth its pleasures with touching sensations, and fills the cup too full.  That cup is the fountain of the soul, from which trouble draws its draughts.  She watches her uncle as he turns toward the children; she knows they are his; she feels how much he loves them.

The attorney—­the man of duty—­is somewhat affected.  “I have a duty to perform,” he says, looking at the court, at the witness, at the children, at the very red-faced clerk, at the opposing counsel, and anything within the precincts of the court-room.  We see his lips move; he hesitates, makes slight gesticulations, turns and turns a volume of Blackstone with his hands, and mutters something we cannot understand.  The devil is doing battle with his heart-a heart bound with the iron strings of the black law.  At length, in broken accents, we catch the following remarks, which the learned gentleman thinks it necessary to make in order to save his gallantry:—­“I am sorry—­extremely sorry, to see the witness, a lady so touchingly sensitive, somewhat affected; but, nevertheless” (the gentleman bows to the judge, and says the Court will understand his position!) “it is one of those cases which the demands of the profession at times find us engaged in.  As such we are bound, morally, let me say, as well as legally, to protect the interests of our clients.  In doing so, we are often compelled to encounter those delicate irregularities to which the laws governing our peculiar institutions are liable.  I may say that they are so interwoven with our peculiar institution, that to act in accordance with our duty makes it a painful task to our feelings.  We—­I may appeal to the court for corroboration—­can