In these weeks in the sick room she had fallen into the habit of leaning upon his judgment which was always calm and dispassionate. When she had tried to excuse this to the doctor he had replied in a matter-of-fact way that it was not unnatural nor to be regretted. In a case of severe illness the person closest to the patient was not usually the one that had the best judgment. She reminded herself often afterwards of this, saying that that was why she relied so on him. Now that he was gone she felt strengthless. Judge Kirtley came out on the first train and walked over from the station to tell her the astounding news that Mr. De Jarnette had thrown up the case. He had been to his (Judge Kirtley's) office late the afternoon before to say that he desired to have the case settled out of court and was prepared to relinquish all claims to the child under the will now and hereafter. "Did he tell you about Philip?" "Philip? No. Nothing more than I have said. He seemed in great haste to get away, for some reason, and not inclined to talk. What is it about Philip? He's doing all right, isn't he?" When he heard from her the story of the doctor's fears, and of Richard's renunciation of the child, his scorn and wrath knew no bounds. "The cur!" he cried. "The cowardly cur!" Then to his amazement Margaret turned upon him. "It is not that," she said firmly, with an intuitive conviction that leaped past the very natural view the Judge had taken. "It was not the fear of having a blind child to take care of that led him to this step. It was something else." "What?" demanded the Judge. "Will you tell me what?" "No," she said, "I cannot tell you what. But this much I am sure of--it was not that." Judge Kirtley took off his glasses, polished them carefully, and put them on again. Then he looked over them into the face of his client. "Well, Margaret, the ways of a woman and the working of a woman's mind are truly past finding out. You defend Richard De Jarnette!" "I don't defend him," she cried hotly, "except against injustice. Anybody is entitled to fair play,--especially the absent. You have always urged me to look at both sides." "Yes," he remarked dryly, "but heretofore you have never been able to do it." She could not have told why she did it now. She protested to herself that it was only in common justice that she had spoken. But the truth is that love is the great discerner. It had cleared her vision and quickened her understanding. Unacknowledged, feared and fought against as the feeling was in the desperate spirit which recognized this as a death struggle, it was yet forcing her to see with its eyes. Henceforth, her judgments of this man would be, whether she would or not, truer, juster, more righteous judgments; her comprehension of motive where he was concerned, more subtly discriminating. It is the _law_ of love. * * * * *