law; and the only difficulty was that he had proved nothing, except that his tender conscience permitted him to offer as an affidavit a paper that was in law not worth a straw, if any better than a forgery itself. There was much sympathy felt for poor Loudon, but he took it very coolly and seemed no way cast down. Mr. Snapall then brought forward his other surviving witness—a gallows-looking fellow, but his testimony was clear, decided and consistent. If he was committing perjury, it was plain that he had been well-drilled by Snapall. Loudon kept his eye upon him with the keenness of the lynx. And while Snapall was commenting upon the case with great power, and while Mrs. Henshaw and Mary gave up all for lost, it was plain that Loudon, as he turned over the will, and looked at it again and again, was thinking of something else besides what Snapall was saying. He acted something as a dog does when he feels sure he is near the right track of the game, though he dare not yet bark. When Snapall was through, Loudon requested that the witness might again be called to the stand. But he was so mild, and kind, and timid, that it seemed as if he was the one about to commit perjury. “You take your oath that this instrument, purporting to be the will of Henry Henshaw, was signed by him in your presence?” “I do.” “And you signed it with your own hand as witness at the time?” “I did.” “What is the date of the will?” “June 18, 1830.” “When did Henshaw die?” “June 22, 1830.” “Were you living in the village where he died at the time?” “I was.” “How long had you lived there?” “About four years, I believe, or somewhere thereabouts.” Here Loudon handed the judge a paper, which the judge unfolded and laid before him on the bench. “Was that village a large or a small one?” “Not very large—perhaps fifty houses.” “You knew all these houses well, I presume?” “I did.” “Was the house in which Mr. Henshaw died, one story or two?” “Two, I believe.” “But you _know_, don’t you? Was he in the lower story or in the chamber when you went to witness the deed?” Here the witness tried to catch the eye of Snapall, but Loudon very civilly held him to the point. At length he said, “In the chamber.” “Will you inform the court what was the color of the house?” “I think, feel sure, it wasn’t painted, but didn’t take particular notice.” “But you saw it every day for four years, and don’t you know?” “It was not painted.” “Which side of the street did it stand?” “I can’t remember.” “Can you remember which way the street ran?” “It ran east and west.” “The street ran east and west—the house two story, and unpainted, and Mr. Henshaw was in the chamber when you witnessed the will. Well, I have but two things more which I will request you to do. The first is to take that pen and write your name on that piece of paper on the table.” The witness demurred, and so did Snapall. But Loudon insisted upon it. “I can’t, my hand trembles so,” said the witness.