“Indeed! but you wrote a bold, powerful hand when you signed that will. Come, you _must_ try, just to oblige us.” After much haggling and some bravado, it came out that he couldn’t write, and never learned, and that he had requested Mr. Brown to sign the paper for him! “Oh, ho!” said Loudon. “I thought you swore that _you_ signed it yourself. Now one thing more, and _I_ have done with you. Just let me take the pocket-book in your pocket. I will open it here before the court, and neither steal nor lose a paper.” Again the witness refused, and appealed to Snapall; but that worthy man was grinding his teeth and muttering something about the witness going to the devil! The pocket-book came out, and in it was a regular discharge of the bearer, John Ordin, from four years imprisonment in the Pennsylvania Penitentiary, and dated June 15, 1831, and signed by Mr. Wood, the worthy warden. The young advocate now took the paper which he had handed to the judge, and showed the jury, that the house in which Mr. Henshaw died was situated in a street running north and south—that it was a one-story house—that it was _red_, the only red house in the village, and moreover, that he died in a front room of the lower story. There was a moment’s silence, and then a stifled murmur of joy all over the room. Brown’s eyes looked blood-shot; the witness looked sullen and dogged, and Mr. Snapall tried to look very indifferent. He made no defence. The work was done. A very brief, decided charge was given by the judge, and, without leaving their seats, the jury convicted Brown of forgery! “That young dog is keen, any how!” said Snapall. “When his conscience tells him he is on the side of justice,” said Loudon, overhearing the remark. It was rather late in the evening before Loudon called on his clients to congratulate them on the termination of their suit, and the recovery of Elm Glen. He was met by Mary, who frankly gave him her hand, and with tears thanked and praised him, and felt sure they could never sufficiently reward him. Loudon colored, and seemed more troubled than when in the court. At length he said abruptly, “Miss Henshaw, you and your mother can _now_ aid me. There is a friend of yours—a young lady, whose hand I wish to obtain. I am alone in the world, poor, and unknown. This is my first law-case, and when I may have another is more than I know.” Mary turned pale, and faintly promised that she and her mother would aid him to the extent of their power. Then there was a pause, and she felt as if she, the only one who was supposed to be unagitated and cool, must speak. “Who is the fortunate friend of mine?” “Don’t you suspect?” “Indeed, I do not.”