He did not seem to consider that this visit would lead to anything; he only wanted to see the man who had blackened his mother's life. The justice chamber was very full as he entered it, and he could not help being impressed by the scene before him. The judge, with his legal robes and his formidable-looking wig, sitting grave and stern on his seat of eminence; the eager faces of the barristers; the watchful eyes of the solicitors; the important look on the faces of the twelve jurymen who sat huddled in a kind of square box; the anxious face of the man who stood in the witness-box giving evidence; all appealed to the young fellow's imagination, and caused his pulses to throb violently. So great was the impression made upon him that for the moment he almost forgot the purpose for which he came. This was life indeed, and the work of making looms appeared to him as a kind of sordid drudgery. The ambitions which had lain smouldering in his heart for a long time sprang into flame again, and he determined that, while he saw no chance of his being a judge, or even like one of the barristers who sat around the table beneath the judge's bench, he at least could become prominent in the great busy life of the world. The case itself, too, cast a kind of spell upon him; he listened eagerly to the questions that were being asked, and as he caught the meaning of the things for which these men were fighting, the picture of his mother's sorrows became less real and less vital. But this was not for long. Presently one of the counsel rose to address the jury, and there was a kind of flutter among the spectators as he did so. "Yon's Graham," he heard a man say by his side, and then the purport of his coming to Manchester laid hold of him. "Which is Graham?" he asked of the man. "Yon man who has just got on his feet," was the reply. "He's a rare 'un, is Graham. I wouldn't like 'im to cross-examine me! You'll see, he'll tear t'other chap's case all to flitters!"