“No, I think you'd better have it all, now. There can't be anything worse. It's funny, yes, with that truly infernal drollery which the newspaper wits seem to have the art of.” He read on--“--'when a case was called that brought the breath of clover blossoms and hay-seed into the sultry court-room, and warmed the cockles of the habitués' toughened pericardiums with a touch of real poetry. This was a case of assault, with intent to rob, in which a lithe young blonde, answering to the good old Puritanic name of Statira Dudley, was the complainant, and the defendant an innocent-looking, bucolic youth, yclept--'” Sewell stopped and put his hand to his forehead. “What is it, David?” demanded his wife. “Why don't you go on? Is it too scandalous?” “No, no,” murmured the minister. “Well?” “I can't go on. But you must read it, Lucy,” he said, in quite a passion of humility. “And you must try to be merciful. That poor boy--that--” He handed the paper to his wife, and made no attempt to escape from judgment, but sat submissive while she read the report of Lemuel's trial. The story was told throughout in the poetico-jocular spirit of the opening sentences; the reporter had felt the simple charm of the affair, only to be ashamed of it and the more offensive about it. When she had finished Mrs. Sewell did not say anything. She merely looked at her husband, who looked really sick. At last he said, making an effort to rise from his chair, “I must go and see him, I suppose.” “Yes, if you can find him,” responded his wife, with a sigh. “Find him?” echoed Sewell. “Yes. Goodness knows what more trouble the wretched creature's got into by this time. You saw that he was acquitted, didn't you?” she demanded, in answer to her husband's stare. “No, I didn't. I supposed he was convicted, of course.” “Well, you see it isn't so bad as it might be,” she said, using a pity which she did not perhaps altogether feel. “Eat your breakfast now, David, and then go and try to look him up.” “Oh, I don't want any breakfast,” pleaded the minister. He offered to rise again, but she motioned him down in his chair. “David, you shall! I'm not going to have you going about all day with a headache. Eat! And then when you've finished your breakfast, go and find out which station that officer Baker belongs to, and he can tell you something about the boy, if any one can.” Sewell made what shift he could to grasp these practical ideas, and he obediently ate of whatever his wife bade him. She would not let him hurry his breakfast in the least, and when he had at last finished, she said, “Now you can go, David. And when you've found the boy, don't you let him out of your sight again till you've put him aboard the train for Willoughby Pastures, and seen the train start out of the depot with him. Never mind your sermon. I will be setting down the heads of a sermon, while you're gone, that will do _you_ good, if you write it out, whether it helps any one else or not.”