with the prisoner, and when Edward entered with a light and springing step and bright smiling face, a subdued murmur ran through their ranks. “Och! it’s himself has the cometherin’ way wid ’im,” whispered a shawled and frowsy nymph of the pavement to another lady of the same nationality and facility of affection. “Fwat an eye’s in de face of ’im; ’t would melt a stone, an’ the tongue of him for Blarney most wonderful.” The chief witness against Sullivan was, of course, the aggrieved Graham, who appeared in the box, his head all swathed in bandages and plasters. He told a piteous tale. He was a homeless, inoffensive man that lodged at Duskin’s, and wouldn’t harm a fly, so he said. He had been refreshing himself after the labours of the day at the house of a friend, and at an early hour had sought his humble lodgings and his virtuous couch. But he had no sooner entered the door of that sacred spot—where peace should reign, whatever broils disturb the street—than that cowardly brute, as strong as an ox and as raging as a lion, had leaped upon him, beaten down his feeble defence, and left him senseless on the ground. His wounds were there for their Worships and all the world to see, and so forth. Unfortunately for Graham, Beaumont had a memory and Graham an unwary tongue. Looking at Beaumont’s face as he rose to cross examine the witness, one would have read there nothing but compassion and sympathy with the complainant in his great and unmerited wrongs. Sister Gertrude confided to Ellen, when all was over, that her heart failed her at that moment, for she feared the plausible rogue’s canting tongue had imposed on their chosen champion. “He is so young, you know,” But Ellen had smiled superior. “Let me see, Graham,” Edward began, in an insinuating voice, “I think you did not tell us your age.” “Forty-four, your honour, if I live till Christmas.” “And what trade may you be?” “A mason, sorr.” “May I feel your hands?” “’Deed, they’re too dirty, sir.” “Oh, never mind. His Worship might tell you lawyers are used to dirt. But, indeed, they are dirty, and soft, too; very soft. Where do you work?” “’Deed, sorr, just at the time present I’m out of a job.” “But the building trade’s very brisk just now, I believe?” “’Deed, sorr, I couldn't say.” “What, not know the state of the labour market in your own trade! Where did you work last?” “At Mr. Whitwam’s, sorr.” “You live in Huddersfield, I think?” “Yes, sorr.” “This how long?” “This twenty years and more, sorr” answered Graham, with alacrity, apparently relieved to get away from the subject of his occupation. “Off and on, or all on?” “Straight on, sorr, twenty year an’ more I’ve lived in this town.” “And never out of it this twenty years?” “Not a day, sorr. If I have may I be——” “Oh, quite so. Then may I ask how long it is since you worked for Mr. Whitwam?” After much evasion it appeared that it was ten years since the witness had worked for Mr. Whitwam or anyone else.