"Ay!" repeated Mr. Critchlow. "Seemingly it began at two o'clock--or thereabouts." He gave a moment of his attention to a noisy gas-jet, which he carefully lowered. "What does it say?" "Nothing yet!" said Mr. Critchlow; and they read the few brief sentences, under their big heading, which described the formal commencement of the trial of Daniel Povey for the murder of his wife. "There was some as said," he remarked, pushing up his spectacles, "that grand jury would alter the charge, or summat!" He laughed, grimly tolerant of the extreme absurdity. "Ah!" he added contemplatively, turning his head to see if the assistants were listening. They were. It would have been too much, on such a day, to expect a strict adherence to the etiquette of the shop. Constance had been hearing a good deal lately of grand juries, but she had understood nothing, nor had she sought to understand. "I'm very glad it's come on so soon," she said. "In a sense, that is! I was afraid Sam might be kept at Stafford for days. Do you think it will last long?" "Not it!" said Mr. Critchlow, positively. "There's naught in it to spin out." Then a silence, punctuated by the sound of stitching. Constance would really have preferred not to converse with the old man; but the desire for reassurance, for the calming of her own fears, forced her to speak, though she knew well that Mr. Critchlow was precisely the last man in the town to give moral assistance if he thought it was wanted. "I do hope everything will be all right!" she murmured. "Everything'll be all right!" he said gaily. "Everything'll be all right. Only it'll be all wrong for Dan." "Whatever do you mean, Mr. Critchlow?" she protested. Nothing, she reflected, could rouse pity in that heart, not even a tragedy like Daniel's. She bit her lip for having spoken.