As for the thoughts of the person thus unconsciously subjected to the criticism of his dearest friend, let our knowledge of the springs that govern his action serve to interpret both the depth and bitterness of his curiosity; while the sentiments of Mansell---- But who can read what lurks behind the iron of that sternly composed countenance? Not Imogene, not Orcutt, not Ferris. His secret, if he owns one, he keeps well, and his lids scarcely quiver as he drops them over the eyes that but a moment before reflected the grand beauty of the unfortunate woman for whom he so lately protested the most fervent love. The next moment the court was opened and Miss Dare's name was called by the District Attorney. With a last look at the unresponsive prisoner, Imogene rose, took her place on the witness stand and faced the jury. It was a memorable moment. If the curious and impressible crowd of spectators about her had been ignorant of her true relations to the accused, the deadly stillness and immobility of her bearing would have convinced them that emotion of the deepest nature lay behind the still, white mask she had thought fit to assume. That she was beautiful and confronted them from that common stand as from a throne, did not serve to lessen the impression she made. The officer held the Bible toward her. With a look that Mr. Byrd was fain to consider one of natural shrinking only, she laid her white hand upon it; but at the intimation from the officer, "The right hand, if you please, miss," she started and made the exchange he suggested, while at the same moment there rang upon her ear the voice of the clerk as he administered the awful adjuration that she should, as she believed and hoped in Eternal mercy, tell the truth as between this man and the law and keep not one tittle back. The book was then lifted to her lips by the officer, and withdrawn. "Take your seat, Miss Dare," said the District Attorney. And the examination began. "Your name, if you please?" "Imogene Dare." "Are you married or single?" "I am single." "Where were you born?" Now this was a painful question to one of her history. Indeed, she showed it to be so by the flush which rose to her cheek and by the decided trembling of her proud lip. But she did not seek to evade it. "Sir," she said, "I cannot answer you. I never heard any of the particulars of my birth. I was a foundling." The mingled gentleness and dignity with which she made this acknowledgment won for her the instantaneous sympathy of all present. Mr. Orcutt saw this, and the flash of indignation that had involuntarily passed between him and the prisoner subsided as quickly as it arose. Mr. Ferris went on. "Where do you live?" "In this town?" "With whom do you live?" "I am boarding at present with a woman of the name of Kennedy. I support myself by my needle," she hurriedly added, as though anxious to forestall his next question.