Chicagoans, for the most part, read in the papers of Judge Barton and pictured in their minds a stout and pink-jowled judiciary in a black coat, imposing black-ribboned eyeglasses, and careful linen. These people, if they chanced to be brought face to face with Judge Barton, were generally seen to smile uncertainly as though a joke were being played on them without success. They saw a small, mild-faced woman with graying hair and bright brown eyes--piercing eyes that yet had a certain liquid quality. She was like a wise little wren who has seen much of life and understands more than she has seen, and forgives more than she understands. A blue cloth dress with, probably, some bright embroidery worked on it. A modern workaday dress on a modern woman. Underneath, characteristically enough, a black sateen petticoat with a pocket in it, like a market woman. A morning spent in Judge Barton's court was life with the cover off. It was a sight vouchsafed to few. Emma Barton discouraged the curious and ousted the morbidly prying. Besides, there was no space in her tiny room for more than the persons concerned. It was less like a court room than your own office, perhaps. Then there was Winnie Steppler, who wrote for Chicago's luridest newspaper under the nom de plume of "Alice Yorke." A pink-cheeked, white-haired, Falstaffian woman with the look and air of a picture-book duchess and the wit and drollery of a gamin. Twice married, twice widowed; wise with a terrible wisdom; seeing life so plainly that she could not write of what she saw. There were no words. Or perhaps the gift of words had kindly been denied her. Her "feature stuff" was likely to be just that. Her conversation was razor-keen and as Irish as she cared to make it. People were always saying to her, "Why don't you write the way you talk?" "It's lucky for my friends I don't talk the way I write."