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indignation-thinking that she would fall to the ground. But to his surprise she said little, and did not stir. Her face was flushed, her hands clenched on the back of the chair. Then, after a pause, she said, quietly—

"I know that this is asserted. There have been some papers found, possibly forged. It may be true. What does it matter

to me?"

“You know it, then!" cried the magistrate, with astonishment.

"I have known it for several days, sir.”

“And who told you?”

"Who should tell me but Philip himself? Dear Philip !his first action, when he found this out, was to come to me. That was the action of a true man."

This was spiteful, because it insinuated that Mr Horton's actions were not those of a true man; and, poor fellow, he who was playing the losing game had the greatest difficulty in knowing how to play it. His next move showed it.

"And," said he, looking with unconcealed admiration at Winifred-" and you love him still?”

"Love him still," she said, quietly.

Horton turned on his heel when he saw the pretty, flushed, triumphant face. The look went to his heart. His old jealousy blazed up. He could have been guilty of any meanness, if he could have found an answer sharp enough.

He envied the man who was accused of murder, and who was sitting-quietly and resignedly enough, poor fellow-in one of the police cells across the yard. Horton would have gladly changed places with his prisoner, and his pale face told something of his story.

Winifred saw this, and pursued her triumph. He had willingly said bitter things against her Philip. He had put his heart in her hands, and had dared to tell her that he loved her; and this was the way he showed it.

Quietly rising, therefore, she faced him, and said, with a calm irony

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Oh, you clever men! Mr Horton, how little you know of us women, to whom you, some of you, believe your are so superior. Love him-love my Philip now! why, I love him

ten times more. Do you think that I loved him for his rank, his coronet, his riches, or his place? No, Mr Horton-I love him for himself. These accidents of birth prevented the free growth of my love. Now, I can love him with all my heart. Now he is stripped and fallen, he has risen here.” She placed her hand upon her heart as she spoke this, leaning back, with one hand upon the chair-as if that pure, soft heart was a shield she placed before the object of her love.

The magistrate, staring at her, was smitten again with desperate jealousy and an intense love.

"You will have it, then; you will have the truth of your hero-your perfect knight, sans peur et sans reproche?'"

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"My perfect knight," she said softly, a smile parting her full lips, as if it made her happy to repeat the words. "My perfect knight-my Philip!"

"Your Philip!" said the magistrate, fiercely. Philip, my poor young lady, is accused of Murder!"

"Your

The blow struck. Winifred sank down in her chair, looking up, amazed.

"This lie," she said at last, slowly and deliberately, "is too dreadful. Whom has he murdered? Whom could he? Did he hate even to strike any one-not even his rival, even you, who can repeat these scandals?"

"His victim was a woman," cried the magistrate, suddenly and with malice. And, from what I can see, the evidence is

sadly against him."

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When a woman is in any case, any other woman becomes suspicious. Winifred was troubled, and said, tremulously"Mr Horton, upon your honour as a gentleman, upon your credit as a magistrate, are you telling me the truth?"

"Upon my soul, Miss Vaughan, I am. I have struggled with myself-how much, how terribly, I cannot tell you. I did not issue the warrant until I was forced by evidence to do SO. Let alone all other considerations, Winifred, believe me that I did so to spare you."

"Go on," said Winifred, no longer fierce and triumphant, for the tone of Mr Horton carried conviction even to her. "Go on. I will bear all. Who was this woman?" "Estelle Martin-a Frenchwoman."

The name was pretty.

She had not

Winifred grew pale. heard it before; for the outline of the story Philip had given her did not necessarily include any reference to this woman; and jealousy and suspicion, born of the devil, began to act upon her.

Could it be that Philip was really guilty? Had he destroyed his victim from love of her? Terrible doubts ! Winifred had heard from that astute dowager, Lady Sark, quite enough of men's doings to render her suspicious of the whole sex; and does any woman really trust them? We need not ask whether they have any reason to do so; but surely they might be generous. If we add to the general want of truth in man an equally general distrust of her own sex, which sadly prevails with woman, we may, perhaps, excuse Winifred if she trembled in sad doubt of "her Philip, her knight," as she listened to the weighty words and certain tones of Mr Horton.

Her heart sank, indeed, within her as he told her all. She was relieved when she heard that Estelle Martin was no rival, but an old nurse; but the chain of the inductive philosopher was too strong, and her belief almost began to waver as Horton, evidently with a generous desire to spare her, weighed but lightly upon each piece of evidence. Had he not done so, she would have been less convinced. She loved Philip none the less; but her faith wavered a little-too much, indeed, for her strong love.

When the evidence was concluded, Mr Horton began to relate the story of the interview between Lord Wimpole and himself; and then, to his astonishment, Winifred began to revive, and her colour came again.

"You see," concluded the puzzled Mr Horton, as he looked upon her whom he loved so well," he will not tell me where he was on that night."

"Then," said Winifred, "I will tell you: he was with me!" Horton started to his feet.

"With you, Miss Vaughan?" he said with amazement.

"Yes!" she said, calmly. "He came on purpose to tell me all that Mr Edgar Wade had told him; and he spent the time with me, from six in the evening until nearly midnight. Dear Philip!" cried the girl, the mists of doubt beginning to clear

away, “did I dare to doubt him? Oh ! my love, my love! I will ask his pardon on my bended knees. My own true knight, indeed!"

"Can you tell me this, Winifred?" cried Mr Horton; for if love gave her a right over him, it gave him, too, some right over her. "Can you publish your own?"

"Shame!" she said; "you are dreaming. There is no shame for me or for Philip. Come, lead me quickly to him. Release him; there is no evidence against him. He was with me. I will swear it!"

"Alas!" cried George Horton, beside himself, "you save him by condemning yourself. This is not true. You could

not "

"Could not! Why, I am Philip's wife!"

"Great God!" said Horton. "Have you other witnesses to your meeting?"

"None! not one. Why should we have?”

"Alas! then, he is lost. If he be your husband, your oath is negatived. You may speak the truth; but the law refuses the evidence, either for or against."

Winifred heard this, and heard no more.

Horton's words

carried conviction to her, and it was like a death warrant. With a plaintive cry, like that of some weak and sorely wounded animal, Winifred fell fainting to the floor.

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CHAPTER XXIV.

HERE IN HIS CHAMBERS SAT THE MAN OF LAW.”. HIDDEN amongst a mass of buildings, from which the smoke beats down upon the foggy November days, and upon the roofs of which the sun sheds rays which seem to get more hot and wearied from having to pierce through so much fog and dust, is the little fountain which throws up its sparkling sprays in Garden Court, Temple.

How the dry old benchers, spinning their dusty webs in the musty, old, cruel days of Eldon and Scarlett-when, as Sydney Smith said, every possible iniquity was perpetrated in the

name of the law without one lawyer of eminence, except the "gigantic Brougham," ever dreaming that anything was wrong -how these old benchers consented to allow so fresh and so pure a thing as a fountain of water to be near, it is quite impossible for us to say. Their Philistine old heads were occupied in making law as distasteful as it could be, so far as in them lay; in poring over deeds which were only full of deadly traps for future clients; in trying to expound marriage settlements which no poor bride could ever understand; and in dreaming at odd times of the awful troubles they brought upon their own flesh and blood-if a decoction of parchment and pale ink can be so called-by making their own wills. For it is an axiom laid down by a learned Lord Chancellor himself a wondrously proficient legal authority-that no barrister or adept—even if he be as wise as Solomon and as learned as the learned Selden-can make his own will! Wise solicitors, over the walnuts and the wine which they have obtained by the money of their clients, shake their heads, and chuckle over this mystery; and clerks who are picking up "Noy's Maxims," and serving their articles, quote this as one of the profound mysteries and most cherished beauties of the law. But it is not until a man has been thoroughly uneducated of every good and honest principle that he sees the whole beauty of this admirable system. Sometimes a student finds that his conscientiousness is too much for him, grows melancholy, and foregoes the honour of becoming Lord Chancellor; but usually he gets accustomed to his work, and accepts the stale consolation that, if clients were not so selfish, lawyers would not be so bad.

Sometimes—and this was the case with Mr Edgar Wadehe allows himself to be persuaded that law is very beautiful in theory, and that there really is no wrong without a remedy. After such a conclusion, he looks upon the writhings of the victims of delay, false judgments, errors, and cunning contrivances, as an ignorant impatience on the part of the clients. He makes up his mind that what he has to do is simply the best he can, for himself first, and his client afterwards; and he gets on." But, after all, the education the law affords is not beneficial to the conscience. We have had barristers who have offered up an oath that their client was innocent; when it may

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