“Yes, if she be resolved to defend herself in open court. He will not sanction a course that involves so much disgrace of herself and family.” “Has she shown him the letter you saw?” “No.” “Why?” “I think she is afraid to let it go out of her hands.” “She might trust it with her father, surely,” said I. “Her father has been very hard with her; and seems to take the worst for granted. He evidently believes that it is in the power of Dewey to prove her guilty; and that if she makes any opposition to his application for a divorce, he will hold her up disgraced before the world.” “This letter might open his eyes.” “The letter is no defence of her; only a witness against him. It does not prove her innocence. If it did, then it would turn toward her a father's averted face. In court its effect will be to throw doubt upon the sincerity of her husband's motives, and to show that he had a reason, back of alleged infidelity, for wishing to be divorced from his wife.” “I declare, Constance!” said I, looking at my wife in surprise, “you have taken upon yourself a new character. I think the case is safe in your hands, and that Mrs. Dewey wants no more judicious friend. If you were a man, you might conduct the defence for her to a successful issue.” “I am not a man, and, therefore, I come to a man,” she replied, “and ask the aid of his judgment. I go by a very straight road to conclusions; but I want the light of your reason upon these conclusions.” “I am not a lawyer as you are aware, Constance--only a doctor.” “You are a man with a heart and common sense,” she answered, with just a little shade of rebuke in her tones, “and as God has put in your way a wretched human soul that may be lost, unless you stretch forth a saving hand, is there any room for question as to duty? There is none, my husband! Squire Floyd believes his daughter guilty; and while he rests in this conclusion, he will not aid her in anything that points to exposure and disgrace. She must, therefore, if a vigorous defence is undertaken, look elsewhere for aid and comfort.” I began to see the matter a little clearer. “Mr. Wallingford is the best man I know.” “Mr. Wallingford!” I thought Constance would have looked me through. “Mr. Wallingford!” she repeated, still gazing steadily into my face. “Are you jesting?” “No,” I replied calmly. “In a case that involves so much, she wants a wise and good defender; and I do not know of any man upon whom she could so thoroughly rely.” Constance dropped her eyes to the floor. “It would not do,” she said, after some moments. “Why?” “Their former relation to each other precludes its possibility.” “But, you must remember, Constance, that Delia never knew how deeply he was once attached to her.” “She knows that he offered himself.”