How soft and white his hands were! How sweet and gentle were the tones of his voice! How easily he spoke—so unlike her father, McSnagley, or the young men whom she met at church or on picnics! How tall and handsome he looked as he pressed her hand at the door! Did he press her hand, or was it a mistake? Yes, he must have pressed her hand, for she remembers now to have pressed his in return. And he put his arm around her waist once, and she feels it yet, and the strange perfume as he drew her closer to him. (Mem.—The master had been smoking. Poor Clytie!) When she had reached this point she raised herself and sat up, and began the process of undressing, mechanically putting each article away in the precise, methodical habit of her former life. But she found herself soon sitting again on the bed, twisting her hair, which fell over her plump white shoulders, idly between her fingers, and patting the carpet with her small white foot. She had been sitting thus some minutes when she heard the sound of voices without, the trampling of many feet, and a loud rapping at the door below. She sprang to the door and looked out in the passage. Something white passed by her like a flash and crouched down at the head of the stairs. It was M’liss. Mrs. Morpher opened the door. “Is Mr. Morpher in?” said a half dozen strange, hoarse voices. “No!” “Where is he?” “He’s at some of the saloons. Oh, tell me, has anything happened? Is it about Aristides? Where is he—is he safe?” said Mrs. Morpher, wringing her hands in agony. “He’s all right,” said one of the men, with Mr. Morpher’s old emphasis; “but”— “But what?” M’liss moved slowly down the staircase, and Clytie from the passage above held her breath. “There’s been a row down to Smith’s old Pocket—a fight—a man killed.” “Who?” shouted M’liss from the stairs. “McSnagley—shot dead.” CHAPTER VII THE PEOPLE vs. JOHN DOE WATERS. Before Chief Justice LYNCH. The hurried statement of the messenger was corroborated in the streets that night. It was certain that McSnagley was killed. Smith’s Pocket, excited but skeptical, had seen the body, had put its fingers in the bullethole, and was satisfied. Smith’s Pocket, albeit hoarse with shouting and excitement, still discussed details with infinite relish in bar-rooms and saloons, and in the main street in clamorous knots that in front of the jail where the prisoner was confined seemed to swell into a mob. Smith’s Pocket, bearded, blue-shirted, and belligerent, crowding about this locality, from time to time uttered appeals to justice that swelled on the night wind, not unfrequently coupling these invocations with the name of that eminent jurist—Lynch.