“Well, sir,” said Mr. Chewkle, slowly, and looking carefully round the room to see that no other person was present, “so it may be there on the deed.” Mr. Grahame looked at him steadfastly. “How?” he asked. Mr. Chewkle reduced his voice to a whisper. “You have got his name on a letter, I s’pose?” “Well, sir?” “Not very difficult to write like it, I fancy.” “Chewkle!” exclaimed Mr. Grahame, with dilated eyes, “what do you counsel?” “Nothing, sir. I merely suggests that if the signature must be there on the deed, no obstinate old fool should prevent its being placed there and, where money is not a hobject, it can easily be managed.” Mr. Grahame’s teeth chattered, as if he had been suddenly transported into a frosty atmosphere. “Chewkle,” he said, grimly, “do you know what the law declares such an act to be?” Mr. Chewkle nodded with perfect self-possession. “It must be done, sir,” he rejoined emphatically. “Your position depends on it. You must balance beggary, destitution, ruin, against rank, fortune, dignity”---- “Forgery!” groaned Mr. Grahame, sinking into his chair, and pressing his hands over his eyes. CHAPTER III.--POSSESSION DISTURBED. _Duke_. You are welcome: take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? _Por_. I am informed thoroughly of the cause, Which is the merchant here and which is the Jew? --Shakspere. In the dreams of Harry Vivian the delicate form and sweet, smiling face of Flora Wilton had appeared to him, and not unfrequently. But then she seemed ever to be some queen of faëryland, seated on a throne of gems of dazzling brilliancy, in floral realms of more exquisite beauty than mortal eye had ever beheld on earth, or waking fancy in its most gorgeous development could conceive. In his moments of romantic imaginings, when his mind was filled with her beauty, he certainly had sketched a few scenes comprising events in which both he and Flora figured. Still his ardent imagination had not carried him beyond the presentation of a flower, and the reward for the gift with which the soft grateful look from eyes, the loveliest in the world, would enrich him. He had never foreshadowed a time--for true love is ever subdued in action by the most genuine modesty--when he should within his arms, press to his throbbing heart the form which had in his eyes no equal, or that the face so rare in its perfection, should recline upon his shoulder, close to his lips. Yet so it chanced to be. Circumstances he could have never shaped had come to pass, and the bliss of entwining his arms about the small, delicate waist of Flora Wilton was bestowed upon him at a moment the most unexpected, when he was unprepared to welcome it and unable to enjoy it.