the judgment?" I inquired.

"None: it was irrevocable."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel reason to suspect, did you say, that his
client's cause was unjust before the verdict was given?"

"He became practically convinced of it as the case proceeded, but not
absolutely certain. Yet he fought for his client with might and main."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel any marbles of his own?" I continued.

"He had. Quite a fair store."

"Sufficient to pay back the lad who had suffered the unjust judgment?"

"About sufficient; no more."

My heart thumped painfully, but I did not hesitate to answer: "I think
he ought to have parted with his own marbles, and so redressed the
wrong and saved his soul."

There was silence for a moment before the Cynic spoke: "I think so,
too." Then, irrelevantly: "There is something about this northern air
that is very bracing."

CHAPTER XVII

GRACE BECOMES DEJECTED

I had no time to feel depressed after Rose left on Saturday, for the
afternoon brought me more customers than I could well accommodate.

My reputation must have travelled as far as Broadbeck, for the greater
number of my patrons are from that town. They consist for the most
part of engaged couples, or couples that obviously intend to become
engaged; and whether it is the excellence of my productions, or the low
charges, or just the fun of being photographed by a woman in a hamlet
like Windyridge that attracts them, I have not been able to determine,
and it does not very much matter. Mother Hubbard, on the other hand,
finds the explanation simple. I am the most talented of artists, with
all the indifference of the genuine genius to adequate remuneration.

I was thoroughly tired when tea-time came and my day's labours ended,
and was quite ready to be petted and made a fuss of by my dear old
lady. By the way, the summer has unfortunately not brought back her
old vigour, and I cannot help worrying a little about her, though she
is as bright and optimistic as ever.

I got a long letter from Rose on Monday morning. It had been written,
of course, on the Sunday, whilst the scent of the moors was still in
her nostrils; but though she feels the change pretty badly I am sure
she is not so depressed as I am. It must have taken her a heap of time
to fill so many sheets of notepaper with her small, business-like
handwriting. There were a good many sparkling sentences in the letter,
but I cannot say that I felt particularl