"Well," he continued, "the suit was a 'long one,' as you said. For days
and weeks, yes, for months, it went on, from January to July, and those
were very full days: full of so many things that you would hardly
understand."

And then he told the boy as much of the days in court as he thought he
would understand, and how the lawyers worked and worked, in court all
day, and up half the night, preparing for the next day. "Mostly around
that little table there," he said, pointing to a white, marble-topped
table against which the boy was leaning, and which now stands in Edward
Bok's study.

"Finally the end came," he said, "after--well, months. To some it seemed
years," said Mr. Beecher, and his eyes looked tired.

"Well," he continued, "the case went to the jury: the men, you know, who
had to decide. There were twelve of them."

"Was it necessary that all twelve should think alike?" asked the boy.

"That was what was hoped, my boy," said Mr. Beecher--"that was what was
hoped," he repeated.

"Well, they did, didn't they?" Edward asked, as Mr. Beecher stopped.

"Nine did," he replied. "Yes; nine did. But three didn't. Three
thought--" Mr. Beecher stopped and did not finish the sentence. "But
nine did," he repeated. "Nine to three it stood. That was the decision,
and then the judge discharged the jury," he said.

There was naturally one question in the boyish mind to ask the man
before him--one question! Yet, instinctively, something within him made
him hesitate to ask that question. But at last his curiosity got the
better of the still, small voice of judgment.

"And, Mr. Beecher--" the boy began.

But Mr. Beecher knew! He knew what was at the end of the tongue, looked
clear into the boy's mind; and Edward can still see him lift that fine
head and look into his eyes, as he said, slowly and clearly:

"And the decision of the nine was in exact accord with the facts."

He had divined the question!

As the two rose from the floor that night Edward looked at the clock. It
was past midnight; Mr. Beecher had talked for two hours; the boy had
spoken hardly at all.

As the boy was going out, he turned to Mr. Beecher sitting thoughtfully
in his chair.

"Good night, Mr. Beecher," he said.

The Plymouth pastor pulled himself together, and with that wit that
never forsook him he looked at the clock, smiled, and answered: "Good
morning, I should say. God bless you, my boy." Then rising, he put his
arm around the boy's