“I guess not, judge. He hain’t never took any notice of my daughter since he married her.” “Well, does your son-in-law go with this person?” “With who, judge?” “With the plaintiff.” “De ol’ woman. No, he don’ go wid de ol’ woman any: _she’s his gran’mother_.” “Well, does he go with the young woman?” “Oh, yes! _Yes!_ He goes with the _young_ woman. Goes with _her_ all the time. That’s the _one_ he goes with!” He seemed to be greatly surprised and delighted to find that this point was what the judge had been trying to get at, and the audience shared his pleasure. I really forget how the case was decided. Perhaps my train, which I began to be anxious not to lose, hurried me away before the _dénoûment_, as often happens with the suburban play-goer. But to one who cares rather for character than for plot it made little difference. I came away thinking that if the actors in the little drama were of another complexion how finely the situation would have served in a certain sort of intense novel: the patrician dowager, inappeasably offended by the low match her grandson has made, and willing to encourage his _penchant_ for the lady of his own rank, whom some fortuity may yet enable him to marry; the wife, with her vulgar but strong passions, stung to madness by the neglect and disdain of her husband’s family,--it is certainly a very pretty intrigue, and I commend it to my brother (or sister) novelists who like to be praised by the reviewers for what the reviewers think profundity and power. VIII.