old confronting him. Sunken cheeks and big eyes, feverishly bright, told a tale. She coughed.
"Consumption," said the judge to himself, methodically, as you would file a paper for reference.
"You don't know me?" said the lady.
"No," said the judge, stiffly; "I do not place you." For all his judicial certainty of speech, there was a something about the lady which Judge Tyler did recognize. It was as you recall a poem whose title, purpose, and moral you have forgotten, but of whose prosody one haunting line remains. The haunting line was a big, sweet mouth.
Judge Tyler glanced down at the child, and was slightly scandalized to perceive that so young a male wore trousers. The child had a big, sweet mouth also. His smiled without volition.
"You don't remember me, Judge Tyler," said the lady. She parted her big, sweet mouth into a deprecating smile, which instantly began to tremble at the corners. Then she interlaced her fingers,
