think that you can succeed where the greatest lawyers in Scotland
have failed. _They_ couldn't prove this man's innocence, all working
together. And _you_ are going to prove it single-handed? Upon my word,
you are a wonderful woman," cried my uncle, suddenly descending from
indignation to irony. "May a plain country parson, who isn't used to
lawyers in petticoats, be permitted to ask how you mean to do it?"

"I mean to begin by reading the Trial, uncle."

"Nice reading for a young woman! You will be wanting a batch of nasty
French novels next. Well, and when you have read the Trial--what then?
Have you thought of that?"

"Yes, uncle; I have thought of that. I shall first try to form some
conclusion (after reading the Trial) as to the guilty person who really
committed the crime. Then I shall make out a list of the witnesses who
spoke in my husband's defense. I shall go to those witnesses, and tell
them who I am and what I want. I shall ask all sorts of questions which
grave lawyers might think it beneath their dignity to put. I shall be
guided, in what I do next, by the answers I receive. And I shall not be
discouraged, no matter what difficulties are thrown in my way. Those are
my plans, uncle, so far as I know them now."

The vicar and Benjamin looked at each other as if they doubted the
evidence of their own senses. The vicar spoke.

"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you are going roaming about
the country to throw yourself on the mercy of strangers, and to risk
whatever rough reception you may get in the course of your travels? You!
A young woman! Deserted by your husband! With nobody to protect you! Mr.
Benjamin, do you hear her? And can you believe your ears? I declare to
Heaven _I_ don't know whether I am awake or dreaming. Look at her--just
look at her! There she sits as cool and easy as if she had said nothing
at all extraordinary, and was going to do nothing out of the common way!
What am I to do with her?--that's the serious question--what on earth am
I to do with her?"

"Let me try my experiment, uncle, rash as it may look to you," I said.
"Nothing else will comfort and support me; and God knows I want comfort
and support. Don't think me obstinate. I am ready to admit that there
are serious difficulties in my way."

The vicar resumed his ironical tone.

"Oh!" he said. "You admit that, do you? Well, there is something gained,
at any rate."

"Many another woman before me," I went on, "has fac