"Why, gentlemen, the truth is, I was summoned to this house, on professional duty,--" he began. Mr. Potts groaned; they all groaned. "In _that_ costume?" asked Potts. "And with _madam_ there?" asked Watkins. "Pro-fessi-o-n-a-l d-u-t-y!" thus Watkins in a hollow voice. 'Professional duty' would not do; evidently not. Foiled on this tack, the good Doctor tried another: "The truth is," he began, with remarkable composure,--"I had been informed that Mrs. Parkins here,--" he pointed to the sobbing "nephew" otherwise Julia, and drew his chair nearer to the three, gradually softening his voice into a confidential whisper,--"Mrs. Parkins, the young wife of my aged friend Parkins, had been so far led away by the insinuating manners of a young man of fashion, as to promise to meet him in this improper place. Desirous to save the wife of my aged friend at all hazards, I assumed this dress,--the one which her seducer was to wear,--and came to this place, and,--rescued her. Do you understand?" That "do you understand," was given in one of his most insinuating whispers; "and thus you see I periled my reputation in order to save,--_her_!" What effect this story would have had upon the three, had it been suffered to travel unquestioned, it is impossible to tell. But low and softly as the Doctor whispered, he was overheard by his "nephew," otherwise, Julia. "Don't lie, Doctor," she said quite tartly as she knelt on the floor. "I was not led away by any young man of fashion, and I did _not_ come here to meet any young man of fashion. I _was_ led away by _you_, and I came here with _you_." Thus speaking, Julia rose from her knees, and came to the Doctor's side, thus presenting to the sight of the three gentlemen, the figure of a very handsome woman, dressed in blue frock coat and trowsers. She was somewhat tall, luxuriously proportioned, with a fine bust and faultless arms, her hair, chestnut brown, and her complexion a delicate mingling of "strawberries and cream." "A dem foine woman," the exquisite of Broadway would have called her. There was not so much of intellect in her face, as there was health, youth, passion. Married to a man of her own age, and whom she loved, she doubtless would have risen above temptation, and always proved a faithful wife, an affectionate mother. But sold by her parents, in the mockery of a marriage, to a man old enough to be her father,--perchance her grandfather,--transferred at the age of seventeen, like a bale of merchandise, to the possession of one whom she could not revere as a father, or love as a husband,--we behold her before us, the victim of the reverend tempter. "You know, Doctor, that you led me away, you know you did," she cried, sobbing, "now did you not?" She bent down her head and looked into his face. "You can't say you didn't. No more he can't," and she turned in mute appeal to the three gentlemen.