“Now!” said the Squire, and obediently to the word Arthur began to read. Once or twice his voice failed him, and he had to clear his throat. Josina would have thought that he was nervous, had she ever known him nervous. Fortunately, the document was short, as legal documents go, and some five minutes, during which the Squire sat listening intently, saw it at an end. “Umph! Sounds all right,” he commented. “Sight o’ words! But there, they’ve got to charge. Now do you give the girl the counterpart, and do you read the lease, lad, and read it slowly, so as I may understand. And hark you, Jos, speak up if there is any differ—nail it like a rat, girl, and don’t go to sleep over it! Don’t you let me be cheated. Welsh is as honest, and I’d as lief trust him, as another, but if aught’s amiss it’s not he that will suffer, nor the confounded scamp of a clerk that made the mistake. And see you there’s no erasures: I’m lawyer enough to know that. Now, slow, lad, slow,” he commanded, “so that I can take it in.” Arthur complied, and began to read slowly and carefully. But again he had more than once to stop, his voice failing. He explained it by saying that the light was not good, and he rose to snuff the candles. The lease, too, was longer than the agreement, and was full of verbiage, and it took some time to read, and some patience. But at long last the delivery clause was reached. No discrepancy or erasure had been discovered, and the Squire, whose attention had never faltered—he was an excellent man of affairs—declared himself satisfied. “Well, there,” he said, in a tone of relief, “that’s done! Drink up, lad, and wet your throttle.” He turned himself squarely to the table. “Give me the pen I used last,” he continued. “And do you guide my hand to the right place.” “I am afraid your pen was left to dry,” Arthur said, “and the nib has opened. You’ll have to use a new one, sir, and try it first. And—the sand? We shall want that. I am afraid it is downstairs. If Josina would not mind running down for it?” “Pooh! pooh! Never mind the sand! Let ’em dry o’ themselves. Less chance of blotting. Where’s the pen?”—holding out his hand for it. “Here, sir. Will you try it on this? If you’ll write your name in full, as if you were signing the deeds”—he guided the Squire’s hand to the place—“I shall see if it is right—and straight.” “Ay, ay, best be careful,” the Squire agreed, squaring himself to his task. “’Twon’t do to spoil ’em. Here?” “Yes—just as you are now.” The old man bent over the table, his white hair shining in the centre of the little circle of light cast by the candles. Slowly and laboriously, in a tense silence, while Arthur, leaning over his shoulder, followed each movement of the pen, and Josina, half in light, half in shadow, watched them both from the farther side of the table, he wrote his name.