His Honor seems moved to mercy by the touching spectacle before him. He whispers in the ear of Mr. Sergeant Stubble, and that functionary brightens up, and with an attempt to be kind, says: “Pray, Miss McArthur—it’s a duty we have to perform, you see—where is your father? the Judge says.” Ah! That question has touched the fountain-spring of all her troubles, and the waters come gushing forth, as if to engulph the last faint shadow of hope in darkness. Almost simultaneously she falls to the floor in a fit of violent hysterics. The Judge orders the court-room cleared of its spectators, and if the reader has ever witnessed the painful sight of a female suffering such paroxysms, he may picture more forcibly in his imagination than we can describe, the scene that follows. For some fifteen minutes the sufferer struggles, and when her mind resumes its calm, she casts a wild, despairing look round the room, then fixes her eyes upon those who are gathered about her. There was a kind impulse yet left in the Judge. He discovers a sympathy for her condition, holds her weak, trembling hand in his own, and bathes her temples with cologne. “You are free to go home-there is no charge against you,” he whispers in her ear. “I have ordered a carriage, and will send you to your home-where is it?” This is, indeed, cruel kindness. “If I had a home,” responds Maria, in a low voice, as she rises, and rests herself on her elbow, “it would shelter me from this distress. Yes, I would then be happy once more.” A carriage soon arrives, she is put into it, and with a few consoling words from the Judge, is driven back, as hastily as possible, to the house from which she was dragged only last night. She has nowhere else to go to-day, but resolves to-morrow to seek a shelter elsewhere. Through the whisperings of that unaccountable human telegraph, the news of her shame, made great and terrible with a thousand additions, is flown into the family secrets of the city. How strange and yet how true of human nature is it, that we stand ever ready to point the finger of scorn at those we fancy in the downward path, while refusing ourselves to receive the moralist’s lessons. CHAPTER XLVII. IN WHICH IS A HAPPY MEETING, AND SOMETHING PLEASING. It is night-Mr. Keepum is seen seated before a table in his drawing-room, finishing a sumptuous supper, and asking himself: “Who dares to question me, the opulent Keepum?” Mr. Snivel enters, joins him over a glass of wine, and says, “this little matter must be settled tonight, Keepum, old fellow-been minced long enough.” And the two chivalric gentlemen, after a short conversation, sally into the street. Yonder, in the harbor, just rounding the frowning walls of Fort Sumpter, blazes out the great red light of the steamer, on which the impatient lover fast approaches Charleston city. “She can do nothing at law—against our influence she is powerless!” ejaculates Keepum, as the two emerge from the house and stroll along up Broad street.