Washington; but--“who are they?” That all-absorbing question remained unanswered, even to the close of the evening, and they departed, leaving it still an “open question.” Judge W. had been seen conversing very familiarly with them, and an anxious company soon surrounded him, uttering, the query, “Who are they?” He informed them, that it was Mr. H. and his wife, Mrs. H., of M--------. “Oh! they all knew that, but what was their family?” “Upon my life, ladies,” answered the good-natured Judge, “I don't know; but if you will only wait until to-morrow evening, I will endeavor to find out.” The task of postponing curiosity, though difficult, was, nevertheless, unavoidable; and the party broke up with a living hope, that ere another day had ended, the important query would be solved. “Who are you? H.,” said the Judge to his friend the next day, as they sat conversing together in H.'s parlor. “Well, that is a hard question, Judge,” replied H.--“but perhaps Mary can answer that question better than I can;” and calling his wife away from a boquet of flowers which she was arranging in a vase; he took her hand in his, as she leaned affectionately over his shoulder, and repeated the inquiry--“Who am I, Mary?--the Judge wishes to know.” “I think I can inform you, Judge,” replied the wife, “for he is not a whit changed since the day he taught me my first lesson in the 'free school' of L. He is Henry H.--formerly assistant teacher in a down-east _free school_, and now, the Hon. Henry H., of M.; moreover, the husband of Mary H., formerly a _factory girl_ in that same town, but now, I need not tell you, Judge, the Hon. Mrs. H., also of M.; I have really become quite enamored of this title.” “It is true, Judge,” continued Mr. H., “I first beheld Mary at a _free school_, taught her her first lesson, learned another from her eyes, and never became satisfied until I possessed the book, that throughout life I might continue to peruse the beauties of the page. But come, Judge,--now that you have traced our pedigree, give some account of yourself; from what ancient stock have you sprung?--Who are you?” “I am the son of Adam!” (a laugh here interrupted him,) “not the Adam spoken of in the Bible; I mean old Adam W., a _shoemaker_ of Albany, who once used his stirrup rather lavishly upon me, and for which good office, I left him one fine morning, without bidding good by. I will not relate to you the many changes of fortune which befel me, until I found myself upon the _bench_, in a United States' court, instead of the _bench_ in my father's shop. Suffice it to say, that my good parent, until his dying day, expressed the opinion that it was a good thing I took to the law early, for I was fit for no _useful purpose_.” At Secretary E.'s on the next evening, a crowd surrounded the Judge, but all wore upon their countenances an air of incredulity--the Judge's story of the “factory girl” “wouldn't go down.”