The lawyer hastily receded. The remains of D. Wiggett were led forward to listen to a few brief but pointed dicta by the court, while Inky Mike (under promptings) edged up and took copious notes in a book such as no reporter ever carried except upon the stage. At the end of the ordeal, D. Wiggett, in broken and terrified accents, disclosed that his motives were of spotless purity, that his document was a harmless joke, and that Mrs. Dunstan could have the place and a deed thereto if she'd just make the payments. “I'll guarantee that,” put in Cyrus the Gaunt. “And I'll see that she gets work to keep going on,” added the Bonnie Lassie. Whereupon both D. Wiggett, the party of the first part (in the document) and Mrs. M. Dunstan, the party of the second part, dissolved in tears, though for very different reasons. The court then proceeded to the sentence of the defendant. Judgment was delivered in two mediums; full-voiced for the proper judicial process, and sotto voice for the benefit of those most concerned. “Prisoner at the Bar-r-r: Ye have brootally assaulted a peaceful citizen (_not more than half-agin as big as yerself_). Ye have bate him to a poolp (_an' him but a scant tin years younger, an with a repitation for bein' a roughneck--with women and childer_). Ye have haff murdered him (_an' take shame to yerself ye didn't do th' other haff_). Because of yer youth an' inexperience (_I mane yer age an the wallop ye carry_) I will let ye off light with a fine of fifty dollars (an if ye'll sind me word when yer goin' to operate again I'll remit the fine). Nixt Ca-ase!” For a culprit who had got off easy, Mr. Miles Morse presented far from a cheerful appearance when Molly Dunstan presented herself on the following morning. Molly exhibited strange and inexplicable symptoms, flushing and paling, finding no place for her regard to rest, until she discovered that Miles Morse was much worse confused than herself. Thereupon, after the manner of women, she became quite composed and easy. Through breakfast he was very silent. After lingering over his coffee to an unwonted degree, he finally arose, with an air of great determination, said “Well” in what was meant to be a businesslike tone, walked briskly to the door, then turned and stood in the most awkward unease. “The house won't be like a home without you,” said he desolately. “Won't it?” said Molly. “You'll be going out to your own place very soon now?” “Suppose I don't want to.” “It's all arranged. I've been talking to Mr. and Mrs. Staten.” “Have ye now!” said Molly with a mutinous uptilt of the chin. “She's arranged for you to get your own kind of work out there.” “I like my own job here.” “It's all arranged,” said Miles Morse with dismal iteration. “Does that mean I'm discharged?” “If you want to put it that way.” “And I'm to go up there to the country--alone--and entertain my California privet hedge?”