smiling a little. "If any man
ought to be case-hardened, I ought to be."

But as he drew nearer and saw the faces of the two, his own face grew
stern and anxious.

"You at home, Tom! What's the matter?"

Tom briefly told his tale, trying to make as light of it as possible,
even trying to force a little humor into his account, but with poor
success. There was absolute silence in the green room when he paused.
Raeburn said not a word, but he grew very pale, evidently in this matter
being by no means case-hardened. A similar instance, further removed
from his immediate circle, might have called forth a strong, angry
denunciation; but he felt too deeply anything affecting his own family
or friends to be able in the first keenness of his grief and anger to
speak.

"My boy," he said at last, in a low, musical voice whose perfect
modulations taxed Tom's powers of endurance to the utmost, "I am very
sorry for this. I can't say more now; we will talk it over tonight. Will
you come to Westminster with us?"

And presently as they drove along the crowded streets, he said with a
bitter smile:

"There's one Biblical woe which by no possibility can ever befall us."

"What's that?" said Tom.

"'Woe unto you when all men speak well of you,'" said Raeburn.

A few minutes later, and the memorable trial of Raeburn v. Pogson had at
length begun. Raeburn's friends had done their best to dissuade him from
conducting his own case, but he always replied to them with one of his
Scotch proverbs "A man's a lion in his ain cause." His opening speech
was such an exceedingly powerful one that all felt on the first day
that he had been right though inevitably it added not a little to the
disagreeableness of the case.

As soon as the court had risen, Erica went home with her aunt and Tom,
thankful to feel that at least one day was well over; but her father was
closeted for some hours with his solicitor and did not rejoin them
till late that evening. He came in then, looking fearfully tired,
and scarcely spoke all through dinner; but afterward, just as Tom was
leaving the room, he called him back.

"I've been thinking things over," he said. "What was your salary with
Mr. Ashgrove?"

"One hundred pounds a year," replied Tom, wondering at what possible
hour the chieftain had found a spare moment to bestow upon his affairs.

"Well, then, will you be my secretary for the same?"

For many years Tom had given all his spare time to helping R