“Sartain, sir; and the bones. Vhy they cut articles out of much narrower cloth, I can tell you, ’Squire. There’s the cooks, and chambermaids, and vaiters about town, none of vich can hold up their heads with a reg’lar, long-established physician’s coachman, who goes far ahead of even an omnibus driver in public estimation, as you must know, ’Squire—but such sort of folks furnish many an article for the papers now-a-days—yes, and articles that ladies and gentlemen read.” “That is certainly a singular source of useful knowledge—one must hope they are well-grounded, or they will soon cease to be ladies and gentlemen at all. Have you the paper about you, Stephen?” Hoof handed the lawyer a journal folded with a paragraph in view that was so much thumbed and dirtied, it was not very easy to read it. “We understand that the trial of Mary Monson, for the murder of Peter and Dorothy Goodwin,” said the ‘article,’ “will come off in the adjoining county of Dukes, at a very early day. Strong attempts have been made to make it appear that the skeletons found in the ruins of Goodwin’s dwelling, which our readers will remember was burned at the time of the murders, are not human bones; but, we have been at great pains to investigate this very material point, and have no hesitation in giving it as our profound conviction that it will be made to appear that these melancholy memorials are all that remain of the excellent couple who were so suddenly taken out of existence. We do not speak lightly on this subject, having gone to the fountain-head for our facts, as well as for our science.” “Hoof on McBrain!” muttered Dunscomb, arching his brows—“this is much of a piece with quite one-half of the knowledge that is poured into the popular mind, now-a-days. Thank you, Stephen; I will keep this paper, which may be of use at the trial.” “I thought our opinions was vorth something more than nothing, sir,” answered the gratified coachman—“a body doesn’t ride at all hours, day and night, year arter year, and come out where he started. I vishes you to keep that ’ere paper, ’Squire, a little carefully, for it may be wanted in the college where they reads all sorts of things, one of these days.” “It shall be cared for, my friend—I hear some one at the street-door bell.—It is late for a call; and I fear Peter has gone to bed. See who is there, and good night.”