t, that was so slow in its recovery from that blow.

The court ran on, grew irksome, and passed. Bart saw something more of
Sartliff, and felt a melancholy interest in him. He also saw much of
Ida, whom he could not help liking, and something of Miss Giddings,
whom he admired.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

THE OLD STORY.

On the morning after Wade's return from the Geauga Court, upon
entering the office, where Bart found him and Ranney and Case, and one
or two others, there was the sudden hush that advises a new arrival
that he has been a subject of remark.

"Good morning, Mr. Wade."

"Good morning, Ridgeley."

"You returned earlier than you anticipated?"

"Yes. How do you come on?"

"About the old way. Did you see my old client, Cole," the King?"

"Old King Cole? Yes, I saw that worthy, and they say on the other side
that they can't try the case under a year, perhaps."

"Well, we defend, and our defence will be as good then as ever," said
Bart.

"The suit was commenced to save the statute of limitations," said
Wade; "and if any defence exists I fear it will be in chancery."

"My dear sir, we will make a defence at law," was the decided answer.

"I saw some of your friends over there," said Wade, "who made many
enquiries about you."

"They are kind." said Bart.

"Of course you know Judge Markham?" said Wade.

Bart bowed. "He is a very honorable and high minded man!" Bart bowed
again. "He spoke of you in the very highest terms, and I was very glad
to hear him."

"You are very kind," said Bart.

"And by the way." pursued Mr. Wade, "I heard a little story: the Judge
has a very beautiful daughter," looking directly at Bart, who bowed to
this also. "It seems that the girl in going home from somewhere, got
lost in the woods, and wandered off into a devil of a big forest there
is down there, covering two or three townships. It was in the night
of that awful storm in April, and she went miles away, and finally
overcome, lay down to die, and was covered with the snow, when a young
chap found her--God knows how--took her up, carried her across the
Chagrin River, or one of its branches, in under some rocks, built a
fire, and brought her to, and finally got her to a man's house in the
woods, sent word to her father, and went off. Do you know anything
about it? The story is, that you are the chap who did it."

All eyes were on Bart.

"I heard something of it," said he, smiling. "I came off the evening
after