The court was crowded early the following morning, for it was not often that cases of such interest as the principal one to be brought forward on this occasion were provided by the inhabitants of ——, a town of the principality, in which it is well known, crime, comparatively speaking, is more rare than in other portions of the United Kingdom.

The prisoner had also been long known in the vicinity for her blameless career, and the patient industry with which, under disadvantages and discouragements (for she had been at an early age separated from both her parents, and thrown upon her own resources), she had pursued her laborious course for ten long years, her heart set on an ever receding hope, which she had in the end been doomed to see engulphed by the dark cloud which now overshadowed her fame.

The court, therefore, was crowded as we said before, when a few minor cases having been disposed of, the prisoner for the forgery case was summoned to the bar.

There was nothing in the appearance of the accused which could at first sight strike the vulgar gaze. Neither youth nor beauty to excite the feeling in her behalf; for though to adopt the loving language of the poet:

the age of care and trouble, rather than of years, for she was not more than one or two and thirty. Streaks of grey had already spread over her forehead, "and the furrows on her cheek spoke the course of bitter tears." Yet few there were amongst the intelligent and feeling part of her beholders who did not soon begin to have their interest strongly rivetted. And one amongst them, who felt her soul moved to its very depths by pity and womanly compassion the instant her eyes fell upon the pale meek face which bore such deep traces of sorrow—and patience as great as her sorrow.

And yet it was a passive sorrow it expressed, a subdued and passive suffering, which the careless might have attributed to dulness or insensibility, so little did the prisoner appear moved to wonder or self pity, by the sharp sense of unmerited misfortunes.

No—rather as one whose mind is all made up of submission and resignation; who, accustomed to the constant anguish of disappointment, considered as no strange thing this last great grief which had befallen her.

And yet, the indictment being read, the prisoner in a low quiet tone pleaded "Not guilty."

The facts, as commented upon by the counsel for the crown, were undeniably against her. Her case was pitiable, it was true. It seemed that at the very last—besides the sickness which had so often retarded her endeavours—a robbery committed in the little shop, in which she carried on a small precarious trade, had despoiled her of the hardly-earned treasure of years; but this circumstance alone made it more likely that one in her situation should grasp at any means, promising to put such an effectual end to her long course of difficulties and disappointments. She pleaded ignorance as to the nature of the aid administered to her. Had she then only consented to give up the name of the guilty donor, the charge would have been withdrawn; and her pertinacious refusal to do so was enlarged upon by the learned counsel as evidence of her being accessory to the fraud.

From the depositions of the witnesses, it then appeared that Mabel Marryott's father had originally been a farmer in the county of ----shire; that soon after his daughter's birth he had emigrated to Australia; that her mother had not followed her husband's fortunes; had remained in England in the service of a family of consideration and distinction in that above-mentioned county, where she still remained. It appeared that the mother had little intercourse with her daughter. At an early age, the latter had been apprenticed to the business in which she afterwards became a partner; and then, as the phrase goes, this little affectionate parent "washed her hands" of her concerns, and left her to strive for herself. About ten years before, the prisoner became acquainted, and finally engaged herself in marriage, with a young artisan on the point of emigrating to America, a contract which proved indeed one of those "long engagements" so often doomed to misfortune and disappointment. They were not to be united till, by their joint exertions, they had accumulated a sufficient sum to pay the expenses of the voyage, and supply a capital whereupon to begin with comfort their married life. Now, by an accident which had in a great measure disabled the lover from pursuing his customary avocations, much of this labour of love had been cast upon his betrothed, who, in spite of many discouragements and disadvantages on her side, had, with never-failing courage, persevered in her exertions, up to the time of her last misfortune—that of having all her little possessions stolen—when she seemed, by all accounts, at length to have been well nigh driven to despair, for to add to this distress, her lover's unkindness—"unkindest cut of all," began (as under the curse of absence, the most confiding lovers are too prone to do) to doubt the alleged causes of her protracted separation, and to write bitter upbraiding letters to that effect.

"We then hear," the learned gentleman proceeded, "that the prisoner began to sink and sicken with despair; but suddenly she receives a letter—she does not tell from whom—but saying something about an appointment with some friend, she leaves her home, and returns in a few days, all exulting happiness. She had received a supply of money sufficient for her need, but is confused and mysterious when questioned as to by whom this bounty has been bestowed. Then without further delay she had paid off her debts, procured for herself such necessaries as time admitted, took leave of her friends, and proceeded to Liverpool, and was to have sailed the following morning for America. But in the meantime the notes she had circulated had been discovered to be forged, and a warrant dispatched for her detention; and the examination before the magistrates eliciting nothing from her but her declaration of innocence, and refusal to throw any light upon the facts connected with their receival, she had been committed for trial. The notes were then produced. They were all dated ten years back, and from the appearance of the paper bore every mark of time and long-keeping; and one circumstance was brought to bear most particularly against the prisoner, which was, that the names assigned upon the bill were those of the firm of Maynard and Co.; and the very house in which the prisoner's mother had resided for so many years as confidential servant, was that of Mr. Trevor, of Montrevor, who was at that time one of the partners in that extensive concern."

The Judge then demanded whether the prisoner's mother was not forthcoming. His lordship was then informed that she was not, as it had been ascertained that she was at that moment lying dangerously ill of a mortal disease. Evidence had however been obtained, that she had not for the last twelve years held any intercourse with her daughter.

The Judge, though considering this point unsatisfactory, forbore further comment, until he had heard the other side of the question, and Mr. Seaham, counsel for the prisoner, accordingly rose up to speak.

No little sensation was created by the able defence of the young barrister. The touching, though simple outline he first drew of the previous history of the accused—her character and conduct, so inconsistent with such grave delinquency as that of which she stood suspected—which he produced many witnesses to testify; all was brought admirably to bear upon the point. Even round the impenetrable cloud in which her silence wrapped the affair, he cast a silvery halo, by the manner in which he treated her conduct in this respect. The moral beauty in which he clothed the idea—the matchless constancy of that poor woman's mind, which few who had heard the details of her history, of her life, could forbear to acknowledge. Who then could feel surprised if now she stood there preferring shame, ignominy, and suspicion to the betrayal of the being who, were it friend or relation—even stranger or acquaintance—had come forward to assist her in her extremity, and though but for a moment, had stood forth in the guise of benefactor, turning her mourning into joy—throwing sunshine upon her weary path! Who could sound the depths of gratitude when once strongly called forth in the human heart—to what even morbid extent, as he owned it might be deemed in the present case, might it not be carried? That the quality of self-preservation—self-defence was greater—many in that assembly might sneeringly assert; but for his own part—he was thankful to say such cynical lessons had not been taught him—he did think that gratitude—disinterested, heroic gratitude, was still a flower not yet quite extinct in the soil of humanity; that in the words of the poet he could assert:

But might there not be a bond stronger even than gratitude which binds the prisoner's tongue in a matter touching so closely her personal welfare? It was his business that day to clear his client, therefore he must add, that very insufficient light had been obtained from a quarter in which much more particular evidence was naturally to have been expected. The prisoner had a mother, which circumstance had before been mentioned, and the truth of which, (even during the brief space of time the matter had been placed in his hands,) he made it his business to ascertain, now lying on her death-bed. Yet how could it be clearly ascertained that this mother has not assisted her daughter in her distress? indeed it seems strangely unnatural that she should not have done so throughout the long probation she had endured, and still more so in this last emergency. Was there no question as to whether the powers of natural affection might not restrain the selfish instinct of self-defence? Was there any proof, though there might be no direct knowledge, that the prisoner had not held intercourse or correspondence with the parent?

It had been stated, that the prisoner had never set foot in the house where the mother had been established so many years—that she never had received pecuniary aid from the family with whom her mother resided; yet the notes had been proved to be exact fac-similes of those delivered by the bank of Messrs. Maynard and Co., that firm to which the head of the family—whom the mother served at the time of the date of these notes—then belonged.

Arthur Seaham, as he proceeded, could not but experience the happy consciousness of success, could not doubt from the air of satisfied approving attention pervading the large assembly in the midst of which he stood, that whatever might be the verdict of the jury as regarded his client, he was at any rate doing well for himself—that he had not overrated his own powers and abilities; at all events he possessed one great gift of genius, the key to the hearts of men, that he had only to push bravely forward to win himself rank amongst an Eldon or an Erskine. The sun shone full upon a glaring court, upon many approving, admiring, nay, upon many tearful faces; for there were many in court who had known young Seaham from a boy, and whose countenance held an affectionate place in their hearts and memories; and yet, perhaps, there were but three among them all, who made any distinct and individual impression on his senses during the time, and these three inspiring feelings quite distinct from any self-pride, from any ambition in his heart.

One was the prisoner herself—that pale, patient face turned on him with such a meek and quiet confidence, as if on him she had reposed all she felt of trust in human power; her eyes fixed on him, her human counsellor—but her heart resting upon another alone able to defend—even on Him who had said:

and in whom, though he were to slay her, she would still surely trust.

The other two we may easily imagine were the faces so striking in their contrast—those two fair members of the court, who occupied convenient places behind the judge's chair, their eyes fixed upon him; the one all bright and beautiful in her excitement—the other becoming paler and paler from the intense and painful interest in which something in the case itself seemed more and more to enthral her.

At this juncture then, Arthur Seaham had arrived; he had but just said that he had hoped for the appearance of one witness whose evidence might have thrown some important light upon the subject, and to whom he had made too late application, when a bustle was heard outside the court, and murmurs arose that this very witness had just that moment arrived.

Another instant, and Eugene Trevor made his way into the court, pale, eager, agitated; bearing every mark of a long and hasty journey. He approached the bench and spoke with Arthur Seaham apart, as he might have done with any other member of the bar, professionally, as if he had never spoken to him on such different matters, and in such a different character as in their interview at the London Hotel.

The young barrister returned to his seat with altered countenance, and addressing the judge, announced that the gentleman just arrived in court, had not come in the character of a witness; but to declare facts, which at once cleared his client from all further imputations. Mr. Trevor then sworn in, declared as follows:

He had come at the dying request of the mother of the accused, to state her confession as to having delivered the forged notes to her daughter, that daughter she declared—having solemnly taken her oath of secresy upon the Bible, being in entire ignorance of the real nature of the relief bestowed upon her, or the reason for the secresy imposed. He then produced certificates from the medical attendants as to the dying condition of the real offender.

To what further transpired, few, beyond those especially concerned in the Éclaircissement, paid any very particular attention; the general interest being now attracted towards the ex-prisoner, who, whilst listening with signs of strong emotion to the declaration of her innocence, had suddenly fainted, and was carried out of the court; and in a few minutes the hall was almost cleared.

It was nearly an hour before Eugene Trevor was released from the examination to which he was subjected. On leaving the court, he stopped to make inquiries for Mabel Marryott.

The official to whom he applied, informed him that the poor woman had been taken into a private room, where she had soon recovered; and then, seeming to look upon the inquirer as a privileged person, offered to conduct him to her presence.

Eugene did not decline the proposal, but followed the man, who soon arrived at the apartment, the door of which he opened, looked within, directing Eugene to enter.

The doctor had just left his patient, and she was seated in an upright position against a chair, still faint and pale, though restored to consciousness, and receiving in her trembling hands the cordials administered by an attendant, whilst Mary Seaham and Carrie Elliott, like two ministering angels, Faith and Hope personified, hung with kind and gentle solicitude over the poor woman's chair, encouraging her fainting spirit with soothing and congratulatory words.

Well might Eugene Trevor pause at the threshold, ere he dared to introduce himself upon such a scene—into such a company. Perhaps, indeed, he might have made his escape, had not the opening of the door directed the looks of those within, ere he had time to depart unseen.

He advanced accordingly, and at once approaching his foster-sister without raising his eyes to her attendants, stooped down, and kindly, though in a confused and embarrassed manner, inquired how she felt.

The poor woman was much agitated by her foster-brother's appearance. She tried to answer, but in the attempt burst into tears, which the woman who attended her nevertheless pronounced would do her good. Then seeing that the young ladies had already retired, Mabel Marryott signed to the woman also to withdraw; and raising her straining eyes to Eugene's face, gasped forth:

"My unfortunate mother!"

At the same time hiding her face with her hands, as if bowed down with conscious shame and humiliation at the mention of that mother's name before one who, she naturally supposed, regarded that mother with the scorn and abhorrence she too well merited.

But Eugene Trevor seemed to view her emotion in another light, and replied to her ejaculation by confirming with as much consideration for her feelings as the extreme case admitted, his previous information as to her mother's dangerous condition—the crisis indeed of a very painful malady under which she had been for some time labouring—speaking finally of her release from suffering as an event which could only by her friends be desired.

"Release from suffering!" murmured the shuddering daughter in a low and horrified tone. "God grant it; God grant that it may be so, Mr. Trevor; but alas! my unhappy mother! has she seen a clergyman with a view to her spiritual relief? does she show signs of repentance? can we entertain hopes that her sins may be forgiven?"

Then, to her companion's somewhat vague and unsatisfactory answers on this point, she with renewed earnestness begged that she might at least be allowed to set out immediately for Montrevor; and perhaps, by the mercy of God, see her mother before it was too late.

But this proposition Eugene did not encourage; he assured her that it would be too late, that he was sorry to say there had been little chance of Mrs. Marryott's surviving his departure many hours, that she might rest assured that everything had been done for her mother that was right and proper. He then advised Mabel Marryott rather to set about immediate arrangements for her voyage to America, for which she should have every facility. Then pressing some bank notes into her graspless hand, and desiring her to apply to him for anything more which might be required, he turned away as if to escape from any thanks his generosity might call forth from those blanched and powerless lips; but rather, we imagine, impatient to cut short so painful and disagreeable an interview; and in another moment he stood by the side of Mary Seaham who, as we have said, had at his entrance withdrawn with Miss Elliott to the further end of the room.

"Mary!" he murmured in a low voice, whilst Miss Elliott, on perceiving his approach, flew back to Mabel Marryott.

"Mary, will you not speak to me?"

Mary turned towards him, and held out her hand.

"Eugene!" she said in a low agitated voice, then paused, and fixing her eyes on him with an earnest, wistful and distressful look; whilst on Eugene's side might have appeared in his countenance more of embarrassment than pleasure.

The door opened, and voices made themselves heard without. Both looked uneasily and uncomfortably towards it.

"Can I not see you, and speak to you, Mary, more privately before I leave this place? I cannot stay longer than to-day, for I am wanted at Montrevor."

"Yes, Eugene," Mary replied in the same low, hurried voice, yet with more earnest anxiety of manner. "I should like very much to see you. If you will come this evening very late, I shall be probably alone, and we can speak together without interruption."

He pressed her hand in sign of agreement, and hastily left the room, exchanging a slight and hurried greeting with Arthur Seaham who passed upon his way.