ook?"

"No," I answered. "Because you swore to the truth, not only in the
spirit, but in the letter. Hamilton was not one of the highwaymen who
attacked and killed Roger Wentworth."

"Ah, but I saw him and recognized him," she answered.

"Why, then, did you make oath that you did not?" I asked.

"I have been asking myself the same question over and over," she
returned. Then after a long pause. "I deliberately swore falsely. I did
recognize him by the light of the lanthorn. I wish I had never seen him,
but having known him as I did at one time, I almost wish that I could
have remained in ignorance of his guilt. Would that the lanthorn had been
dark so that I could not have seen him."

"I do not deny that you saw him, Frances, but I do deny that you saw him
attack Roger Wentworth. Hamilton was two hundred yards down the road when
Roger was killed. If not, he has lied to me, and, with all his faults,
I have always found him truthful."

After a moment she answered musingly: "I believe you are right. Noah had
whipped up the horses, and we must have covered at least a hundred yards
or more before I saw Master Hamilton's face. I fear I have committed
a great sin against him, and this day came near committing a greater. I
was on the point of answering 'yes' to the lawyer's question, when some
motive prompted me to say 'no,' and to make false oath. I wish I were
dead. I have wronged him cruelly, and you are to blame."

The last sentence was purely feminine logic, which is always interesting
but usually inaccurate.

She began to weep, and I took her hand to soothe her, as I asked gently:
"Tell me, Frances. Tell me all your trouble. Speak it out. Let me be your
other self. Perhaps I can help you."

After a long pause she began her pathetic story: "I cannot blind myself
to the truth. It is because I cannot stop thinking of him. The creatures
that infest this court are but foils to show me that he is a man, even
though he be a bad one, while they are mere imitations. I have often
heard you say bitingly that women do not hate wickedness in men as they
should--"

"I fear it is true," I interrupted dolefully.

"I suppose it is," she continued. "And one might go further and say that
no woman ever loved a man only because he was good. Too often goodness is
but the lack of courage to do wrong or the absence of temptation. If a
man has no qualities save goodness to recommend him, I fear he might go
his whole life through not k