Such was the outline of the story, and, for all that I understood of it, I could have clapped my father to the echo, with the tears gulping in my throat, for his noble vindication of a wronged man. There were other points he made, such as that Joshua had himself escaped with the utmost difficulty from the burning building (and did that look like arson?); such as that he had instructed his lawyers, after committal, to advertise strenuously, though vainly, for his brother’s whereabouts (and did that look like murder?); such as that the bones found amongst the ruins were the bones of anatomical specimens, in which the firm was well known to have dealt. I need not insist on them, because the end was what I knew it must be if men were not base and abominable enough to close their ears wilfully to those ringing accents of truth. The prosecution, poor thing! answered, and the judge summed up; and still Mr. Quayle, quite absorbed in the case, did not offer to take me away. I had my eyes on my father all the time. He had sunk back, as if exhausted, after his speech, and sat in a corner of the bench, his hand over his face. The jury gave their verdict without leaving their places. I heard the demand and the answer. The cry, “Not Guilty,” rang like a pæan in my ears; and still I kept my eyes on my father. The prisoner, freed from the dock, had left the court, when suddenly some people stirred, and a whisper went round. A barrister bent over the resting figure, and arose hurriedly. In a moment there was a springing up of heads everywhere, so that the dear form was blotted from my sight. Mr. Quayle, looking over my shoulder, caught a word, and gave a quick little gasp. “Dicky,” he said, catching at me, “come out at once! We must get away before--before----” and he left the sentence unfinished as he hurried me into the street. CHAPTER II. A GREAT LOSS AND A QUEER EQUIVALENT. I looked in Mr. Quayle’s face; but I asked him no question. The mud we trod seemed colder, the houses we passed more frowning than before; but I asked no question. I could not form one in my mind; only suddenly and somehow I felt frightened, as if in dreams before a great solitude. Then in a moment I was sobbing fast and thickly. Ah, what is the use to skate round the memory! Let it clutch me for a moment, and be faced and dismissed. My father, my dear, ardent, noble father was dead--struck down in an instant--shaken out of life by the poignant utterances of his own spirit. While the flower of his fervour was blossoming and bearing fruit, the roots thereof were dead already--smitten in their place in his heart. That, its work done, had ceased beating. Sometimes afterwards in my desolation I recalled the church clock, with its poised motionless hands, and thought what a melancholy omen it had been.