, deferred to, rested
upon, something in the inmost nature of the man into whose eyes she
looked across this thronged and fevered space--something of rare
equanimity, dispassionate yet tender, calm, high, impartial, and ideal?
She did not know; she had not thought of it before. Her eyes dilated.
Suddenly she saw the drawing-room at Fontenoy, green and gold and cool,
with the portraits on the wall,--Edmund Churchill, who fought with King
Charles; Henry his son, who fled to Virginia and founded the family
there; a second Edmund, aide-de-camp to Marlborough; two Governors of
Virginia and a President of the Council; the Lely and the Kneller--both
Churchill women; and the fair face and form of Grandaunt Jacqueline for
whom she was named. She smelled the roses in the bowls, and she saw
herself singing at her harp. It was a night in June, the night of the
great thunderstorm. Lewis Rand had come down from the blue room, and
Ludwell Cary entered from the darkness of the storm.

"Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for a hermitage."

Unity's hand touched her. "Jacqueline, are you tired? Would you like to
go away?"

The spell broke. Jacqueline was most tired, and she would very much have
liked to go away, but a glance at her cousin and at the lady with whom
they had come determined the question. That to both it was as good as a
play, colour and animation proclaimed, and Jacqueline had not the heart
to ring the curtain down. She shook her head and smiled. "We'll stay it
out."

Her companion leaned back, relieved, and she was left to herself again.
She knew that Cary's eyes were still upon her, but she would not turn
her own that way. She made herself look at the judges upon the bench,
the District Attorney, the opposing lawyers, even the prisoner. It was
the heat and the thunder in the air that made her so tense and yet so
tremulous. Every nerve to-day was like a harpstring tightly drawn where
every wandering air must touch it. All this would soon be over--then
home and quiet! The day was growing old; even now Mr. Hay was addressing
the jury with an impressiveness that announced the closing periods of a
speech. When he was done, would not the court adjourn until to-morrow?
It was said the trial might last two weeks. Mr. Hay sat down, but alas!
before the applause and stir had ceased, Mr. Wickham was upon his feet.

Mr. Wirt followed Mr. Wickham, an