Meantime the trial of Ellen Hunter came on at the Sheriff Court, to which she had been remitted. No reasoning or persuasion could induce her to plead guilty, or advance extenuating circumstances by way of lightening her sentence. “They may do what they like to me, but I winna say I’m guilty when I’m innocent,” was her firm declaration. “If my wean could only speak, it wad tell ye that I’ve spoken naething but the truth.” The case accordingly went to proof, and was speedily settled to the satisfaction of the jury, who, without leaving the box, found the charge proven. But then there arose in the Court, close to the bar, a pale shadow of a man, who in broken tones stated that he was the husband of the accused, and pleaded for permission to say a few words in mitigation of his wife’s offence. The permission was granted, and, in a husky and broken tone, Hunter proceeded to narrate the circumstances which had brought him to the Infirmary—his wife’s devotion, integrity, and sterling honesty; and the dread fear which had brought her on that long journey on foot, and in the dead of winter, with a child at her breast. The speech was given in the homeliest of language, and without any attempt at grammatical correctness; but there was a power and native eloquence about it which went to every heart. The wife was sobbing loudly at the bar with her infant in her arms, and the judge, visibly affected along with the whole Court, was about to pass a light sentence, when there came an interruption, the very last that any would have looked for in that place. “I will do it, and I don’t care for you!” was shouted out in a woman’s voice in the audience, and as all looked round a girl known to me as “Sally the Snowdropper,” struggled up from one of the seats in spite of the efforts of a man at her side to detain her. Then there was a brief struggle and altercation, and the man rising with her dealt the poor girl a terrific blow in the eyes. The whole Court was aghast, and the brute was speedily collared and brought forward in custody. Then the prisoner at the bar started up with a joyful scream, and pointing to Sally, cried out— “That’s the woman! that’s the kind lassie that gied me the shilling and wrappit her shawl roon’ my wean. Ask her and she’ll tell ye.” Sally came forward, staunching the blood flowing from her nose, and looking pale with excitement, but firm and self-reliant withal.