as that?  If it had been Mr. Wilkinson, now; but, no; she was afraid of Mr. Wilkinson, the distant, the irreproachable, the autocratic great Mogul.  She looked down again, through the blinds of course.  Marjorie Thomas was on the lawyer’s knee, and Marjorie Carruthers on the veteran’s.  The Captain’s daughter was combing Coristine’s brown hair with her fingers, and pointing the ends of his moustache, much to the other Marjorie’s amusement and the lawyer’s evident satisfaction.  Miss Carmichael inwardly called her cousin a saucy little minx, resenting her familiarities with a man who was, of course, nothing to her, in a way that startled herself.  Why had he not saved somebody’s life and been wounded, instead of that poetic fossil of a Wilkinson?  But, no; it was better not, for, had he saved the colonel’s life, Cecile would have been with him, and that she could not bear to think of.  Then, she remembered what Corry had told her of the advertisement to the next of kin.  Perhaps she would be wealthy yet, and more than his equal socially, and then she could condescend, as a great lady, and put a treasure in those poor gloved hands.  Where would they all have been without these hands, all scarred and blistered to save them from death?  Everybody was very unkind to little Marjorie’s Eugene, and failed to recognize his claims upon their gratitude.  Oh, that saucy little minx, with her grand assumptions of proprietorship, as if she owned him, forsooth!

Mr. Bangs called the justices to business.  There was a prisoner to examine, and two charred masses of humanity for the coroner to sit upon.  So a messenger was sent off to summon the long-suffering Johnson, Newberry, and Pawkins, for the coroner’s inquest, and the doctor was carried back into the office for the examination of the prisoner, Mark Davis.  The two Squires sat in appropriate chairs behind an official table, at one side of which Mr. Bangs took his seat as clerk.  Constable Rigby produced his prisoner, loaded with fetters.  “Has this man had his breakfast, Rigby?” asked the Squire.  “Certainly not, Squire,” replied the constable.  “Then take him at once to the kitchen, take off these chains and handcuffs, and let him have all that he can eat,” replied the J.P., sternly.  The corporal’s sense of rectitude was offended.  The idea of feeding criminals and releasing them from irons!  The next thing would be to present them with a medal and a clasp for each new offence against society.  But, orders were orders, and, however iniquitous, had to be obeyed; so Davis was allowed to stretch his limbs, and partake of a bountiful, if somewhat late, morning meal.  “To trespass upon your kindness, Miss Hill, with such as this,” said the apologetic constable, pointing to his prisoner, “is no act of mine; Squire Carruthers, who, no doubt, thinks he knows best, has given orders that it has to be, and my duty is to carry out his orders to the letter.”  Breakfast seemed to infuse courage into the dissipated farmer.  When it was