“No,” Winthrop exclaimed eagerly, “it wasn’t in a theatre, and it wasn’t in a private house. It was--” he shook his head helplessly, and looked at her for assistance. “You don’t know, do you?” The girl regarded him steadily. “How should I?” she said. And then, as though decided upon a course of action of the wisdom of which she was uncertain, she laughed uneasily. “But the spirits would know,” she said. “I might ask them.” “Do!” cried Winthrop, delightedly. “How much would that be?” As though to reprove his flippancy, the girl frowned. With a nervous tremor, which this time seemed genuine enough, she threw back her head, closed her eyes, and laid her arm across her forehead. Winthrop, unobserved, watched her with a smile, partly of amusement, partly on account of her beauty, of admiration. “I see--a court room,” said the girl. “It is very mean and bare. It is somewhere up the State; in a small town. Outside, there are trees, and the sun is shining, and people are walking in a public park. Inside, in the prisoner’s dock, there is a girl. She has been arrested--for theft. She has pleaded guilty! And I see--that she has been very ill--that she is faint from shame--and fear--and lack of food. And there is a young lawyer. He is defending her; he is asking the judge to be merciful, because this is her first offence, because she stole the cloak to get money to take her where she had been promised work. Because this is his first case.” Winthrop gave a gasp of disbelief. “You don’t mean to tell me--” he cried. “Hush!” commanded the girl. “And he persuades the judge to let her go,” she continued quickly, her voice shaking, “and he and the girl walk out of the court house together. And he talks to her kindly, and gives her money to pay her way to the people who have promised her work.” Vera dropped her arm, and stepping back, faced Winthrop. Through her tears her eyes were flashing proudly, gratefully; the feeling that shook her made her voice vibrate. The girl seemed proud of her tears, proud of her debt of gratitude. “And I’ve never forgotten you,” she said, her voice eager and trembling, “and what you did for me. And I’ve watched you come to this city, and fight it, and fight it, until you made them put you where you are.” She stopped to control her voice, and smiled at him. “And that’s why I knew you were District Attorney,” she said; “and please--” she fumbled in the mesh purse at her waist and taking a bill from it, threw it upon the table. “And please, there’s the money I owe you, and--and--I thank you--and goodbye.” She turned and almost ran from him toward the door to the hall. “Stop!” cried Winthrop. Poised for flight, the girl halted, and looked back. “When can I see you again?” said the man. The tone made it less a question than a command. In a manner as determined as his own, the girl shook her head. “No!” she said. “I must!” returned the man. Again the girl shook her head, definitely, finally.