“I saw her almost every day for the time she was there, and talked with her as well as I could; but she spoke very little English. Mary Monson was the only person who could talk with her freely; she spoke her language.” “Had you much acquaintance with the prisoner at the bar?” “I was some acquainted; as a body always is, when they live such near neighbours.” “Were your conversations with the prisoner frequent, or at all confidential?” “To own the truth, I never spoke to her in my life. Mary Monson was much too grand for me.” Dunscomb smiled; he understood how common it was for persons in this country to say they are “well acquainted” with this or that individual, when their whole knowledge is derived from the common tongue. An infinity of mischief is done by this practice; but the ordinary American who will admit that he lives near any one, without having an acquaintance with him, if acquaintance is supposed to confer credit, is an extraordinary exception to a very general rule. The idea of being “too grand” was of a nature to injure the prisoner and to impair her rights; and Dunscomb deemed it best to push the witness a little on this point. “Why did you think Mary Monson was ‘too grand’ for you?” he demanded. “Because she _looked_ so.” “_How_ did she look?—In what way does or did her looks indicate that she was, or thought herself ‘too grand’ for your association?” “Is this necessary, Mr. Dunscomb?” demanded the judge. “I beg your honour will suffer the gentleman to proceed,” put in Williams, cocking his nose higher than ever, and looking round the court-room with an air of intelligence that the great York counsellor did not like. “It is an interesting subject; and we poor, ignorant, Duke’s county folks, may get useful ideas, to teach us how to look ‘too grand!’” Dunscomb felt that he had made a false step; and he had the self-command to stop. “Had you any conversation with the German woman?” he continued, bowing slightly to the judge to denote submission to _his_ pleasure. “She couldn’t talk English. Mary Monson talked with her, I didn’t, to any account.” “Were you at the fire?” “I was.” “Did you see anything of this German during the fire, or afterwards?” “I didn’t. She disappeared, unaccountable!” “Did you visit the Goodwins as often after Mary Monson came to live with them, as you had done previously?” “I didn’t—grand looks and grand language isn’t agreeable to me.” “Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?” “I think, your honour,” objected Williams, who did not like the question, “that this is travelling out of the record.” “Let the gentleman proceed—time is precious, and a discussion would lose us more of it than to let him proceed—go on, Mr. Dunscomb.” “Did Mary Monson ever speak to you?” “She never did, to my knowledge.” “What, then, do you mean by ‘grand language?’” “Why, when she spoke to aunt Dorothy, she didn’t speak as I was used to hear folks speak.” “In what respect was the difference?”