The court room was packed on the morning on which the verdict of the jury was expected, as it had been every day of the trial, and by the same spectators, who had followed its progress with such intense interest.

There is a delicious moment of excitement which the frequenter of trials well knows, and which he would not miss for the world.  It is that instant when the foreman of the jury stands up to give the verdict, and before he has opened his fateful lips.

The court assembled and waited.  It was an obstinate jury.

It even had another question ­this intelligent jury ­to ask the judge this morning.

The question was this:  “Were the doctors clear that the deceased had no disease which might soon have carried him off, if he had not been shot?” There was evidently one jury man who didn’t want to waste life, and was willing to stake a general average, as the jury always does in a civil case, deciding not according to the evidence but reaching the verdict by some occult mental process.

During the delay the spectators exhibited unexampled patience, finding amusement and relief in the slightest movements of the court, the prisoner and the lawyers.  Mr. Braham divided with Laura the attention of the house.  Bets were made by the Sheriff’s deputies on the verdict, with large odds in favor of a disagreement.

It was afternoon when it was announced that the jury was coming in.  The reporters took their places and were all attention; the judge and lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swayed and pushed in eager expectancy, as the jury walked in and stood up in silence.

Judge.  “Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?”

Foreman.  “We have.”

Judge.  “What is it?”

Foreman.  “Not guilty.”

A shout went up from the entire room and a tumult of cheering which the court in vain attempted to quell.  For a few moments all order was lost.  The spectators crowded within the bar and surrounded Laura who, calmer than anyone else, was supporting her aged mother, who had almost fainted from excess of joy.

And now occurred one of those beautiful incidents which no fiction-writer would dare to imagine, a scene of touching pathos, creditable to our fallen humanity.  In the eyes of the women of the audience Mr. Braham was the hero of the occasion; he had saved the life of the prisoner; and besides he was such a handsome man.  The women could not restrain their long pent-up emotions.  They threw themselves upon Mr. Braham in a transport of gratitude; they kissed him again and again, the young as well as the advanced in years, the married as well as the ardent single women; they improved the opportunity with a touching self-sacrifice; in the words of a newspaper of the day they “lavished him with kisses.”

It was something sweet to do; and it would be sweet for a woman to remember in after years, that she had kissed Braham!  Mr. Braham himself received these fond assaults with the gallantry of his nation, enduring the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty in its own coin.

This beautiful scene is still known in New York as “the kissing of Braham.”

When the tumult of congratulation had a little spent itself, and order was restored, Judge O’Shaunnessy said that it now became his duty to provide for the proper custody and treatment of the acquitted.  The verdict of the jury having left no doubt that the woman was of an unsound mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to the safety of the community, she could not be permitted to go at large.  “In accordance with the directions of the law in such cases,” said the Judge, “and in obedience to the dictates of a wise humanity, I hereby commit Laura Hawkins to the care of the Superintendent of the State Hospital for Insane Criminals, to be held in confinement until the State Commissioners on Insanity shall order her discharge.  Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at once to the execution of this decree.”

Laura was overwhelmed and terror-stricken.  She had expected to walk forth in freedom in a few moments.  The revulsion was terrible.  Her mother appeared like one shaken with an ague fit.  Laura insane!  And about to be locked up with madmen!  She had never contemplated this.  Mr. Graham said he should move at once for a writ of ‘habeas corpus’.

But the judge could not do less than his duty, the law must have its way.  As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and not fully comprehending it, Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by the officer.

With little space for thought she was, rapidly driven to the railway station, and conveyed to the Hospital for Lunatic Criminals.  It was only when she was within this vast and grim abode of madness that she realized the horror of her situation.  It was only when she was received by the kind physician and read pity in his eyes, and saw his look of hopeless incredulity when she attempted to tell him that she was not insane; it was only when she passed through the ward to which she was consigned and saw the horrible creatures, the victims of a double calamity, whose dreadful faces she was hereafter to see daily, and was locked into the small, bare room that was to be her home, that all her fortitude forsook her.  She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone ­she had been searched by the matron ­and tried to think.  But her brain was in a whirl.  She recalled Braham’s speech, she recalled the testimony regarding her lunacy.  She wondered if she were not mad; she felt that she soon should be among these loathsome creatures.  Better almost to have died, than to slowly go mad in this confinement.

­We beg the reader’s pardon.  This is not history, which has just been written.  It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel.  If this were a work of fiction, we should not dare to dispose of Laura otherwise.  True art and any attention to dramatic proprieties required it.  The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess could not escape condemnation.  Besides, the safety of society, the decencies of criminal procedure, what we call our modern civilization, all would demand that Laura should be disposed of in the manner we have described.  Foreigners, who read this sad story, will be unable to understand any other termination of it.

But this is history and not fiction.  There is no such law or custom as that to which his Honor is supposed to have referred; Judge O’Shaunnessy would not probably pay any attention to it if there were.  There is no Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no State commission of lunacy.  What actually occurred when the tumult in the court room had subsided the sagacious reader will now learn.

Laura left the court room, accompanied by her mother and other friends, amid the congratulations of those assembled, and was cheered as she entered a carriage, and drove away.  How sweet was the sunlight, how exhilarating the sense of freedom!  Were not these following cheers the expression of popular approval and affection?  Was she not the heroine of the hour?

It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura reached her hotel, a scornful feeling of victory over society with its own weapons.

Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this feeling; she was broken with the disgrace and the long anxiety.

“Thank God, Laura,” she said, “it is over.  Now we will go away from this hateful city.  Let us go home at once.”

“Mother,” replied Laura, speaking with some tenderness, “I cannot go with you.  There, don’t cry, I cannot go back to that life.”

Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing.  This was more cruel than anything else, for she had a dim notion of what it would be to leave Laura to herself.

“No, mother, you have been everything to me.  You know how dearly I love you.  But I cannot go back.”

A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch.  Laura took it and read: 

“The bill is lost.  Dilworthy ruined. (Signed) Washington.”

For a moment the words swam before her eyes.  The next her eyes flashed fire as she handed the dispatch to her m other and bitterly said,

“The world is against me.  Well, let it be, let it.  I am against it.”

“This is a cruel disappointment,” said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief more or less did not much matter now, “to you and, Washington; but we must humbly bear it.”

“Bear it;” replied Laura scornfully, “I’ve all my life borne it, and fate has thwarted me at every step.”

A servant came to the door to say that there was a gentleman below who wished to speak with Miss Hawkins.  “J.  Adolphe Griller” was the name Laura read on the card.  “I do not know such a person.  He probably comes from Washington.  Send him up.”

Mr. Griller entered.  He was a small man, slovenly in dress, his tone confidential, his manner wholly void of animation, all his features below the forehead protruding ­particularly the apple of his throat ­hair without a kink in it, a hand with no grip, a meek, hang-dog countenance. a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for while every visible sign about him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless weakling, the truth was that he had the brains to plan great enterprises and the pluck to carry them through.  That was his reputation, and it was a deserved one.  He softly said: 

“I called to see you on business, Miss Hawkins.  You have my card?”

Laura bowed.

Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as before.

“I will proceed to business.  I am a business man.  I am a lecture-agent, Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you were acquitted, it occurred to me that an early interview would be mutually beneficial.”

“I don’t understand you, sir,” said Laura coldly.

“No?  You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity.  If you will enter the lecture field under good auspices, you will carry everything before you.”

“But, sir, I never lectured, I haven’t any lecture, I don’t know anything about it.”

“Ah, madam, that makes no difference ­no real difference.  It is not necessary to be able to lecture in order to go into the lecture tour.  If ones name is celebrated all over the land, especially, and, if she is also beautiful, she is certain to draw large audiences.”

“But what should I lecture about?” asked Laura, beginning in spite of herself to be a little interested as well as amused.

“Oh, why; woman ­something about woman, I should say; the marriage relation, woman’s fate, anything of that sort.  Call it The Revelations of a Woman’s Life; now, there’s a good title.  I wouldn’t want any better title than that.  I’m prepared to make you an offer, Miss Hawkins, a liberal offer, ­twelve thousand dollars for thirty nights.”

Laura thought.  She hesitated.  Why not?  It would give her employment, money.  She must do something.

“I will think of it, and let you know soon.  But still, there is very little likelihood that I ­however, we will not discuss it further now.”

“Remember, that the sooner we get to work the better, Miss Hawkins, public curiosity is so fickle.  Good day, madam.”

The close of the trial released Mr. Harry Brierly and left him free to depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coast mission.  He was very mysterious about it, even to Philip.

“It’s confidential, old boy,” he said, “a little scheme we have hatched up.  I don’t mind telling you that it’s a good deal bigger thing than that in Missouri, and a sure thing.  I wouldn’t take a half a million just for my share.  And it will open something for you, Phil.  You will hear from me.”

Philip did hear, from Harry a few months afterward.  Everything promised splendidly, but there was a little delay.  Could Phil let him have a hundred, say, for ninety days?

Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, and, as soon as the spring opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began transforming the loan he had received from Squire Montague into laborers’ wages.  He was haunted with many anxieties; in the first place, Ruth was overtaxing her strength in her hospital labors, and Philip felt as if he must move heaven and earth to save her from such toil and suffering.  His increased pecuniary obligation oppressed him.  It seemed to him also that he had been one cause of the misfortune to the Bolton family, and that he was dragging into loss and ruin everybody who associated with him.  He worked on day after day and week after week, with a feverish anxiety.

It would be wicked, thought Philip, and impious, to pray for luck; he felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a blessing upon the sort of labor that was only a venture; but yet in that daily petition, which this very faulty and not very consistent young Christian gentleman put up, he prayed earnestly enough for Ruth and for the Boltons and for those whom he loved and who trusted in him, and that his life might not be a misfortune to them and a failure to himself.

Since this young fellow went out into the world from his New England home, he had done some things that he would rather his mother should not know, things maybe that he would shrink from telling Ruth.  At a certain green age young gentlemen are sometimes afraid of being called milksops, and Philip’s associates had not always been the most select, such as these historians would have chosen for him, or whom at a later, period he would have chosen for himself.  It seemed inexplicable, for instance, that his life should have been thrown so much with his college acquaintance, Henry Brierly.

Yet, this was true of Philip, that in whatever company he had been he had never been ashamed to stand up for the principles he learned from his mother, and neither raillery nor looks of wonder turned him from that daily habit had learned at his mother’s knees. ­Even flippant Harry respected this, and perhaps it was one of the reasons why Harry and all who knew Philip trusted him implicitly.  And yet it must be confessed that Philip did not convey the impression to the world of a very serious young man, or of a man who might not rather easily fall into temptation.  One looking for a real hero would have to go elsewhere.

The parting between Laura and her mother was exceedingly painful to both.  It was as if two friends parted on a wide plain, the one to journey towards the setting and the other towards the rising sun, each comprehending that every, step henceforth must separate their lives, wider and wider.