“That’s because you are married, Ned,”—Dunscomb coolly answered—“Now, no one thinks of putting such a question to _me_. I see lots of people, as well as yourself; but not a soul has asked me whether I thought Mary Monson guilty or innocent.” “Poh! You are her counsel, and no one could take the liberty. I dare say that even Mr. Timms, here, your associate, has never compared notes with you on that particular point.” Timms was clearly not quite himself; and he did not look as shrewd as he once would have done at such a remark. He kept in the back-ground, and was content to listen. “I do suppose association with a brother in the law, and in a case of life and death, is something like matrimony, Dr. McBrain. A good deal must be taken for granted, and not a little on credit. As a man is bound to believe his wife the most excellent, virtuous, most amiable and best creature on earth, so is a counsel bound to consider his client innocent. The relation, in each case, is confidential, however; and I shall not pry into your secrets, any more than I shall betray one of my own.” “I asked for none, and wish none; but one may express surprise at the intense degree of excitement that prevails all through Duke’s, and even in the adjacent counties.” “The murder of a man and his wife in cold blood, accompanied by robbery and arson, are enough to arouse the community. In this particular case the feeling of interest is increased, I make no doubt, by the extraordinary character, as well as by the singular mystery, of the party accused. I have had many clients, Ned, but never one like this before; as you have had many wives, but no one so remarkable as the present Mrs. McBrain.” “Your time will come yet, Master Dunscomb—recollect I have always prognosticated that.” “You forget that I am approaching sixty. A man’s heart is as hard and dry as a bill in chancery at that age—but, I beg your pardon, Ned; _you_ are an exception.” “I certainly believe that a man can have affections, even at four-score—and what is more, I believe that when the reason and judgment come in aid of the passions——” Dunscomb laughed outright; nay, he even gave a little shout, his bachelor habits having rendered him more exuberant in manner than might otherwise have been the case. “Passions!” he cried, rubbing his hands, and looking round for Timms, that he might have some one to share in what he regarded as a capital joke. “The passions of a fellow of three-score! Ned, you do not flatter yourself that you have been marrying the Widow Updyke in consequence of any _passion_ you feel for her?” “I do, indeed,” returned the Doctor, with spirit; mustering resolution to carry the war into the enemy’s country—“Let me tell you, Tom Dunscomb, that a warm-hearted fellow can love a woman dearly, long after the age you have mentioned—that is, provided he has not let all feeling die within him, for want of watering a plant that is the most precious boon of a most gracious Providence.”