would be quite easy to write if it were only once well begun. But
he had not written above a few words, having spent some time in his
previous reflections, when he paused again at the sound of a tumultuous
summons at the street-door. As may be well supposed, his servant took
more time than usual to answer it, resenting a noise so out of character
with the house, during which John listened half-angrily, fearing, yet
wishing for, a diversion. And then his own door burst open, not, I need
not say, by any intervention of legitimate hands, but by the sudden rush
of Philip, who seemed to come in in a whirl of long limbs and eager eyes,
flinging himself into a chair and fixing his gaze across the corner of
the table upon his astonished yet expectant friend. "Oh, Uncle John!"
the boy cried, and had not breath to say any more.

John put forth his hand across the table, and grasped the young flexible
warm hand that wanted something to hold. "Well, my boy," he said.

"I suppose you know," said Philip. "I have nothing to tell you, though
it is all so strange to me."

"I know--nothing about what interests me most at present--yourself,
Pippo, and what has happened to you."

John had always made a great stand against that particular name, but
several times had used it of late, not knowing why.

"I don't know what you thought of me last night," said the boy, "I was
so miserable. May I tell you everything, Uncle John?"

What balm that question was! He clasped Pippo's hand in his own, but
scarcely could answer to bid him go on.

"It was unnecessary, all she wanted to tell me. I fought it off all the
morning. I was there yesterday in the court and heard it all."

"In the court! At the trial?"

"I had no meaning in it," said Philip. "I went by chance, as people say,
because the Marshalls had not turned up. I got Simmons to get me into
the court. I had always wanted to see a trial. And there I saw my mother
stand up--my mother, that I never could bear the wind to blow on,
standing up there alone with all these people staring at her to be
tried--for her life."

"Don't be a fool, Philip," said John Tatham, dropping his hand; "tried!
she was only a witness. And she was not alone. I was there to take care
of her."

"I saw you--but what was that? She was alone all the same; and for me,
it was she who was on her trial. What did I know about any other? I
heard it, every word."

"Poor boy!"

"So what was the use of making herself m