passing her, said without looking at her,
"If you are strong, do not trample on the
weak." And so left her, in a state which she
could not define to be either happiness or
unlhappiness.

"She is right," said Horace, " and Paul is
a fool. How I used once to envy that boy's
beauty and poetry. But now—I would rather
be the most rugged featured ogre that ever
terrified a naughty child, if I were but strong
and manly, than accept all his loveliness
and his weakness with it. No woman shall
say of me, that she does not respect me—not
even Magdalen!"

So Paul was not much advanced by this
interview; and all that Horace said, when he
questioned him as to his success, was the
pithy advice—" Let her alone," and " don't
worry me now, Paul, I am busy."

CHAPTER VI.

The assize-time was fast approaching
and the trial of Miss Trevelyan for forgery
was, of course, the talk of the neighbourhood.
It can be imagined what was the excitement
in a country place, where the family was so
well known, and where everyone took that
peculiar kind of interest in each other—half
fault-finding and half responsible—which
gives a domestic character, though not always
a domestic charm, to a small society. Of course
Andrew Trevelyan found some partisans.
There are always advocates for every side
and every person.Even about Oakfield a
few—not many—were to be found who
thought, indeed, that that codicil was very
strange, when everyone knew how fond old Mr
Trevelyan was of his son, and how little he
had ever cared for his daughter; and who said
also that it was unjust; for though Andrew had
been a wild young fellow enough,yet he was
married and steadied now, and all that ought
to be forgotten. Mr Trevelyan had forgiven
him many times before. If he had forgiven
his marriage, he need not have been so very
harsh for anything else. And after all ,what
had be done to justify his disinheritance?
Magdalen was a good girl enough, they dared
say; but she was one of those plaguy clever
women one never can trust. The neighbours
talked and wrangled in this way among
themselves; there being Guelfs and Ghibellines
about Oakfield—strong Andrewites and
Magdalenians, Horace worked in his own way,
letting no one into his plans; while Paul
suffered such agonies of mind from the coming
shame and publicity,as might almost earn
forgiveness for his cowardice.

The day came, and Magdalen's trial came
too.The court was crowded. Every person
of any note whatsoever in the county was
there. Wagers had been made about it;
irreconcilable quarrels and one marriage had
alike sprung out of it: it had lighted up a
civil war all about Oakfield, and every
one was anxious to see how the battle
would terminate. The Andrewites were the
weakest in numbers, but the most powerful
in lungs; while the Magdalenians contented
themselves with the frigid sympathy of all
well-bred people, and " hoped poor Miss
Trevelyan would succeed." The case was called;
and, in the midst of the most profound
silence, Magdalen took her place in the felon's
dock.

She was ordered to remove her bonnet;
which demand, after much apparently angry
discussion, was at last merged into the
compromise of throwing up her veil. Then the
whole court was astir,—silks rustling, boots
creaking; some standing up and craning over
their neighbours' heads; some leaning
forward; others backward—all to obtain a good
look at that noble face, calm and dignified in
the criminal's place. Horace stood near her.
His interest in the cause had become too
strong to admit of his trusting himself with
the defence of Magdalen professionally. But
strong, clear, and prompt, he watched every
countenance; every turn of the case, and
made frequent and valuable suggestions to
the prisoner's counsel. Paul sat near to
Magdalen also; but in a state of great
physical weakness and mental agitation. He
had just so much life left in him as to be
able to lean forward against a table without
fainting; although, if he had not been seated,
he must have fallen. Occasionally Horace
was agitated too; but his agitation took the
shape of excitation, and gave him greater
quickness even than usual. He had more
vividness of thought, more keenness of
perception; like a man whose senses are heightened
and stimulated in power by opium. He
seemed to possess almost an added sense,
and to be able to divine what he did not see.
One thing troubled him—the post-hour. The
London post did not arrive at that town till
the late afternoon, and he was expecting a
letter to-day from the missing friend, Mr.
Slade, whose address, amongst the mountains
of Cordova, he had at last discovered. He
had been in constant correspondence with
old Miss Slade, and had calculated to an hour
that he might receive a letter to-day from
her brother, supposing his had been answered
so soon as was possible. He felt sure he
would find some important news therein
when it did come; but this wretched post
would not be in till nearly four o'clock, and
how drag on so long as that, a cause that
might only employ an hour or two? So Horace
was on the rack,but he bore his torture bravely,
and made no one else miserable by showing
it. Magdalen was pale as a statue: statue-like,
too, in her movements—acting, looking, and
speaking like a somnambulist—with
preternatural calmness and self-possession; as if her
nerves had been made of iron. Paul stifled
his sighs so ill that he moaned, and drew
more sympathy than all the rest.

The trial proceeded: Andrew was the first
witness for his own prosecution. He swore that
some years ago he read his father's will—the