USTICE was now to be administered, and Rodney was brought into the crowded court-room for trial. The officer led him to the prisoner's narrow dock, an enclosed bench, at each end of which sat a constable, with a long staff in his hand. There were five or six other prisoners sitting in the dock with him. Next to him was a woman, her garments ragged, her hair matted, and her face red and bloated. Next to her sat a squalid negro, who seemed totally indifferent to the scenes that were passing around him. On the other side of him was a young man, apparently about twenty years old, of thin, spare form, with a red flush at intervals coloring his cheek, and a hollow cough that sounded like an echo from the grave. He was evidently in a deep consumption, and had been already several months in prison. And he leaned his head upon the railing, as though he would hide himself from every eye. He had been tried a few days before, for having been associated with others in a burglary, and found guilty, and he was now present to hear his sentence.

After the formal opening of the court, this young man was the first called upon, and, with trembling limbs, he rose to hear the sentence of the judge. After some remarks upon the enormity of his crime, and the clear evidence upon which he had been convicted, the judge sentenced him to five years' imprisonment in the penitentiary. When those words, five years, reached him, he dropped back upon the seat, as if struck with a bullet, and then raising his face to the judge, with an expression of profound anguish, said, "Half the time would be more than enough, your honor; I shall be in the grave before one year is past."

The case of the negro-man was immediately called up, but Rodney heard nothing of it. He hid his face in his hands, and wept. A sense of his terrible position flashed upon him, and he could not keep back his tears, or stifle his sobs. He wept aloud, and felt, though he might not see, that all eyes were turned upon him. His whole frame shook with the anguish of his soul.

Presently a hand was laid upon his, and a head was bent over the bar near him, and a voice addressed him kindly: "Be calm, my boy; there is no good in crying; who is your counsel?"

Rodney looked up, and saw a young man, well dressed, and with an affable and winning countenance, standing before him. His face looked kind and benevolent, at least in Rodney's eyes, for he had spoken to him gently and encouragingly.

He replied to his question, "I have no counsel, sir; I have no money."

"Well, I will try what I can do for you," said the young lawyer. "Come out here, and sit by me, and tell me what you are here for."

He led him out of the disgraceful dock, gave him a seat directly in front of the jury, sat down beside him, and asked him to tell him the truth about all the circumstances that led to his imprisonment and trial. Rodney told him truly all that happened from the time of his running away to his arrest. He told him, too, who he was, and who were his relatives in the neighborhood of Philadelphia. He had never spoken of these before.

"Well," said the lawyer, "I don't see that they can bring anything out to hurt you, if that is the true statement of the case. And now, my boy, you may cry as much as you wish."

Rodney looked up, surprised, wondering what on earth he wanted him to cry for. He thought afterwards that the advice was probably given that his weeping might affect the sympathies of the jury, before whose eyes he was sitting. But he could scarcely have shed a tear then if his liberty had depended upon it. He felt as though he had a friend, and his consciousness of innocence of any violation of human law, and his confidence that his new friend could show that he was guiltless, set his perturbed heart at rest, and he felt sure that he should be acquitted.

When the court adjourned, the lawyer took out a card, and, giving it to Rodney, said, "If your case should be called up before I get here this afternoon, just tell them that I am your counsel, and they will put it off till I come. Here is my name."

There was but one word on the card, and Rodney kept it long as a grateful memento of the disinterested kindness that had been shown him in the hour of his bitter trial. The name on the card was

[A] This is not a fictitious but the real name of the gentleman whose kindness it commemorates.