down
to you the doctrine of contributory negligence, the bearings of which on
this case you have already thought of, I don't doubt,--when you come to
apply that rule to this case, you will make short work, I am afraid, of
romance."

Mr. Pope then proceeded to say that the case was in a nutshell. The
plaintiff had called a car; the driver of the car had pulled up his
horses; it was a wet day, the wheels would not stop quickly, and Mrs.
Stiles was in a hurry to get on; she tried to board the car while it was
in motion, and was thrown off. Was there any law to make a railway
company responsible for such accidents as this? or any railway company
that would not go out of business immediately if it _were_ to be held so
responsible?

Then Mr. Pope called his witnesses. He was a very short time examining
them; he bit his lips when he heard their answers. Mrs. Tarbell's
cross-examination was also short. Alexander whispered to her to cut it
short,--that the testimony was almost an admission of her case by
itself. But to Mrs. Stiles all these things were terribly significant of
victory for Mr. Pope; and the very fact that Mrs. Tarbell offered no
rebutting testimony was somehow twisted into another evidence of
approaching disaster by her poor stupid old mind. She hardly heard a
word of Mrs. Tarbell's speech to the jury. She was looking forward in
agony to what Mr. Pope would say. For she knew he was right. She knew
that Mrs. Tarbell had been carried away by her sympathies; she was sure
of it. Oh, why had she not gone to a gentleman lawyer? He would have
advised her not to bring suit; at least he would have allowed her to
accept that compromise. She was all alone. Celandine and Mr. Mecutchen
had gone away somewhere,--gone to get some ice-cream: they would be
back. Should she go and fling herself at Mr. Pope's feet and confess
everything?

When Mrs. Tarbell sat down there was a hum of applause, and the judge
stopped waving his fan for a moment to give Mrs. Tarbell a
scarcely-perceptible nod of approval.

"If I know anything, it'll be a two-thousand-dollar werdick," mumbled
one of the tipstaves.

Then Mr. Pope got on his legs. He passed his hand over his face, and
there was a countenance for you!--luminous, inspired, magical; a face
one moment like to a running brook for poetry and liquid sentiment, the
lines and wrinkles on it shifting about and rippling sweetly down into
his chin, where they cascaded off, so to speak; the ne