As Ishmael passed out of the court amid the tearful thanks of the mother and her children, and the proud congratulations of honest Reuben and Hannah, he neared the group composed of Judge Merlin, Claudia, and Beatrice.

Judge Merlin looked smiling and congratulatory; he shook hands with young barrister, saying: 

“Well, Ishmael, you have rather waked up the world to-day, haven’t you?”

Bee looked perfectly radiant with joy.  Her fingers closed spasmodically on the hand that Ishmael offered her, and she exclaimed a little incoherently: 

“Oh, Ishmael, I always knew you could!  I am so happy!”

“Thank you, dearest Bee!  Under Divine Providence I owe a great deal of my success to-day to your sympathy.”

Claudia did not speak; she was deadly pale and cold; her face was like marble and her hand like ice, as she gave it to Ishmael.  She had always appreciated and loved him against her will; but now, in this hour of his triumph, when he had discovered to the world his real power and worth, her love rose to an anguish of longing that she knew her pride must forever deny; and so when Ishmael took her hand and looked in her face for the words of sympathy that his heart was hungering to receive from her of all the world, she could not speak.

Ishmael passed out with his friends.  When he had gone, a stranger who had been watching him with the deepest interest during the whole course of the trial, now came forward, and, with an agitation impossible to conceal, hastily inquired: 

“Judge Merlin, for Heaven’s sake! who is that young man?”

“Eh! what!  Brudenell, you here!  When did you arrive?”

“This morning!  But for the love of Heaven who is that young man?”

“Who? why the most talented young barrister of the day—­a future chief justice, attorney-general, President of the United States, for aught I know!  It looks like it, for whatever may be the aspirations of the boy, his intellect and will are sure to realize them!”

“Yes, but who is he? what is his name? who were his parents? where was he born?” demanded Herman Brudenell excitedly.

“Why, the Lord bless my soul alive, man!  He is a self-made barrister; his name is Ishmael Worth; his mother was a poor weaver girl named Nora Worth; his father was an unknown scoundrel; he was born at a little hut near—­Why, Brudenell, you ought to know all about it—­near Brudenell Hall!”

“Heaven and earth!”

“What is the matter?”

“The close room—­the crowd—­and this oppression of the chest that I have had so many years!” gasped Herman Brudenell.

“Get into my carriage and come home with us.  Come—­I will take no denial!  The hotels are overcrowded.  We can send for your luggage.  Come!”

“Thank you; I think I will.”

“Claudia!  Beatrice! come forward, my dears.  Here is Mr. Brudenell.”

Courtesies were exchanged, and they all went out and entered the carriage.