A thin, washed-out, pretty woman stood up, and clasped her hands in
front of her.

"Has this man been a good husband to you, madam?" asked the young judge.

The woman broke into vehement assurances. No man could have been a
better husband. Would she take him back? Indeed she would take him back.
She held out her hands as though she would physically drag her husband
from the pillory.

The judge bowed toward the probation officer, and she beckoned the
prisoner to her.

Other men followed, and in the fortune of each Mr. Thorndike found
himself, to his surprise, taking a personal interest. It was as good as
a play. It reminded him of the Sicilians he had seen in London in their
little sordid tragedies. Only these actors were appearing in their
proper persons in real dramas of a life he did not know, but which
appealed to something that had been long untouched, long in disuse. It
was an uncomfortable sensation that left him restless because, as he
appreciated, it needed expression, an outlet. He found this, partially,
in praising, through Andrews, the young judge who had publicly rebuked
him. Mr. Thorndike found him astute, sane; his queries intelligent, his
comments just. And this probation officer, she, too, was capable, was
she not? Smiling at his interest in what to him was an old story, the
younger man nodded.

"I like her looks," whispered the great man. "Like her clear eyes and
clean skin. She strikes me as able, full of energy, and yet womanly.
These men when they come under her charge," he insisted, eagerly, "need