The morning sun shone upon the crowded court, as the Bench waited for the appearance of Mr. Jim Sanders. The windows, large, high, and guiltless of blinds, faced the south-east, and the warm autumn rays poured in, to the discomfort of those on whom they directly fell. They fell especially on the prisoner; his fair hair, his winning countenance. They fell on the haughty features of Miss Diana Trevlyn, leaning forward to speak to Mr. Peterby, who had been summoned in haste by herself, that he might watch the interests of Rupert. They fell on the sad face of Mrs. Chattaway, bent downwards until partly hidden under its falling curls; and they fell on the red face of Farmer Apperley, who was in a brown study, gently flicking his top-boot with his riding-whip. One, who had come pressing through the crowd, extended her hand, and touched the farmer on the shoulder. He turned to behold Nora Dickson. "Mr. Apperley, did your wife make those inquiries for me about that work-woman at the upholsterer's, whether she goes out by the day or not?" asked Nora, as though speaking for the benefit of the court in general. Mr. Apperley paused to collect his thoughts upon the subject. "I _did_ hear the missis say something about that woman," he remarked at length. "I can't call to mind what, though. Brown, isn't her name?" "We must have her, or somebody else," continued Nora, in the same tones. "Our drawing-room winter-curtains must be turned top for bottom; and as to the moreen bed-furniture----" "Silence there!" interrupted an authoritative voice. And then there came again the same call which had already been echoed through the court twice before-- "James Sanders!" "Just step here to the back, and I'll send your wife a message for the woman," resumed Nora, in defiance of the mandate just issued. The farmer did not see why the message could not have been given to him where he was; but we are all apt to yield to a ruling power, and he followed Nora. She struggled through the crowded doorway of the court into a comparatively empty stone hall. The farmer contrived to follow her; but he was short and stout, and emerged purple with the exertion. Nora cast her cautious eyes around, and then bent towards him with the softest whisper. "Look here, Mr. Apperley. If they examine _you_, you have no need to tell everything, you know." Mr. Apperley, none of the keenest at taking a hint, stared at Nora. He could not understand. "Are you talking about the upholstering woman?" asked he, in his perplexity.