She turned, with a slight gesture, toward the unobserving and apparently unthinking clod in the wheel-chair. Her face, visible now to the rector, with its flowing eyes and parted lips, was a picture of subdued but vindictive anger.
Apparently the juror thought it time to bring the conversation to an end, for he said:
“Well, I must be going. I just stopped to say I was sorry for you, and to say if I could help you any way I’d be glad to. My name is Samuel Major. I’m a wagon-maker. My shop is around on Mill Street.”
He held out his hand to her and she took it.
“Thank you,” she said, “for your sympathy and kindness, and for your interference in our behalf. It didn’t amount to anything, of course; it couldn’t. But it showed where you stood, and that’s what we want, nowadays, men who think, and who are not afraid to say what they think. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!”
He hurried away, but turned back again to ask:
“Are you going to take the case up to a higher court? or haven’t you decided about that yet?”
“I have decided,” she replied. “I shall not take it up. I’m done with law and lawyers, and trying to get justice through the courts. Hereafter I’ll get it in my own way.”
It was not until the juror mentioned his name that the clergyman recognized him as an occasional attendant on the services at Christ Church. He had no pew nor sitting; but his children went to the Sunday-school, and the rector had called once or twice at the house, finding only the mother at home. So, as the man started toward the aisle, the clergyman intercepted him and shook hands with him.