She started; the voice seemed familiar: the face, too, with its high color, small hazel eyes that, though sympathetic, yet had a mischievous gleam, tousled brown hair, neckcloth askew under one ear.

'Why, thank you——' she began uncertainly. Where had she met him? He was no acquaintance from the Carolinas, his Yankee inflection showed that.

'You don't remember me,' he said, with a shout of laughter. 'Oh, fickle Dulcinea! Have you forgot the banks of the East River? Have you forgot your first kiss, if I may be so bold?—Washington Irving, ma'am, at your service.'

'Oh, of course,' she cried contritely, laughing a little. 'You must forgive me'. She had a vision of the boy and girl, halfplayful, half-enamored, experimenting together with the light sweetness of adolescent love. Richmond Hill and her seventeenth birthday! How happy I was!

Aloud she said, 'That was so very long ago'. In spite of her effort to be light, her voice faltered. 'You have hardly changed,' she went on quickly.

'Nor you, Theodosia, except to grow more beautiful'. But this was not quite true: he found her much changed. She was beautiful enough, her great eyes as magnificent as ever, her hair as burnished and silken, but the dewiness was gone, the fresh sparkle. And though her face was still smooth and unlined, it had sharpened. When she did not smile, it was marred by a heaviness of expression which aged her. Joy and expectancy have deserted her, he thought, and immediately rebuked himself. How could one be joyful and expectant with a father on trial for his life?

'I see a bench down there in the shade,' said he, indicating the square. 'Let us sit there, and I will find you some refreshment.'

'I dare not leave,' she began. 'I must be there when they convene.'

'They will not do so for half an hour,' he assured her. 'The marshal told me.'

She allowed him to settle her on a bench, declined his offer to procure her a glass of Madeira from the tavern across the square, but gratefully accepted the cup of water he brought her.

'So you, too, have come to gape at the pillorying of an innocent man,' she said sadly, turning to him.

Poor Theo, he thought with sympathy. Does she really think him so innocent? His writer's brain was fascinated by the new angle which he might glean from this meeting. He longed to probe her, to uncover for his delighted inspection the motives and emotions which animated her. But he did not wish to hurt her. Though the boyish love he had felt for her had long since vanished, it had left a residue of sentimental interest: a pleasing nostalgic pang.

'I have not come to gape. I am reporting the trial for the New York Chronicle. '