“Yet, I think I have been told that none of you believe she has been indicted by her real name.” “Very true; but it makes no difference. Call her by that she has assumed; but do not call her by an alias as wretched as that of ‘poor woman.’” “I meant no slight, I do assure you, John; for I feel almost as much interest in Miss Monson as you do yourself. It is not surprising, however, that one in her situation should feel an interest in the law.” “It is not this sort of interest that I mean. It has seemed to me, once or twice, that she dealt with the difficulties of her own case as if she took a pleasure in meeting them—had a species of professional pleasure in conquering them. Timms will not let me into his secrets, and I am glad of it, for I fancy all of them would not bear the light; but he tells me, honestly, that some of Miss Monson’s suggestions have been quite admirable!” “Perhaps she has been”—Anna checked herself with the consciousness that what she was about to utter might appear to be, and what was of still greater importance in her own eyes, might really be, ungenerous. “Perhaps what? Finish the sentence, I beg of you.” Anna shook her head. “You intended to say that perhaps Miss Monson had some _experience_ in the law, and that it gave her a certain satisfaction to contend with its difficulties, in consequence of previous training. Am I not right?” Anna would not answer in terms; but she gave a little nod in assent, colouring scarlet. “I knew it; and I will be frank enough to own that Timms thinks the same thing. He has hinted as much as that; but the thing is impossible. You have only to look at her, to see that such a thing is impossible.” Anna Updyke thought that almost anything of the sort might be possible to a female who was in the circumstances of the accused; this, however, she would not say, lest it might wound John’s feelings, for which she had all the tenderness of warm affection, and a woman’s self-denial. Had the case been reversed, it is by no means probable that her impulsive companion would have manifested the same forbearance on her account. John would have contended for victory, and pressed his adversary with all the arguments, facts and reasons he could muster, on such an occasion. Not so with the gentler and more thoughtful young woman who was now walking quietly, and a little sadly, at his side, instinct with all the gentleness, self-denial, and warm-hearted affection of her sex. “No, it is worse than an absurdity”—resumed John—“it is cruel, to imagine anything of the sort of Miss ——By the way, Anna, do you know that a very singular thing occurred last evening, before I drove over to town, to be present at the wedding. You know Marie Mill?” “Certainly—Marie Moulin, you should say.” “Well, in answering one of her mistress’s questions, she said ‘oui, _Madame_.’” “What would you have had her say?—‘_non_, Madame?’” “But why Madame at all?—Why not Mademoiselle?”