“Twenty o’ them will be worth fingering,” he said, with a grin, and added abruptly, “and, perhaps, if old Wilton was to die _very_ suddenly, it might be something in my pocket.” A sickly smile passed over Mr. Grahame’s face. “There is no telling what happens to old men,” he replied. “I have no desire to harm the old fellow, but I would give a magnificent douceur to the man who brought me tidings that he had been gathered to his ancestors.” Then he added quickly--“Haste away, I expect some of my family here--cannot you contrive to slip out unobserved?” “Rather,” responded Chewkle, with a knowing look, “I came in by the garding, and up the hanging staircase. Luckily, the winder was half open, though the blind was down; I shall go back the same way.” Mr. Grahame now understood the secret of his sudden and noiseless appearance. He was not sorry to know that the man could retire from the house without being seen, but he resolved that a like opportunity to enter at unbidden moments should not be afforded him. He watched him descend into the garden, listened to his stealthy tread upon the smooth gravel path, and remained motionless until his intent ear could detect no other sound than the rustle of leaves, stirred by the soft breath of a gentle night breeze. Then he returned to his table. He took up the work “On Poisons.” He had hastily thrown it from him when startled by the unexpected appearance of Chewkle. He gazed with a self-possessed aspect at the book, opened it, closed it with a smart clap, and then, walking with a firm step to his bookcase, he replaced it. “I shall not now need its aid,” he muttered. Then he sat himself by his library table. After musing a moment or two, he jerked his head once or twice, and ejaculated-- “What a scoundrel that fellow Chewkle is!” Then he calmly applied himself to the perusal of some letters. CHAPTER VI.--THE COVETED HEART BESTOWED. She saw it waxing very pale and dead, And straight all flush’d; so lisped tenderly, “Lorenzo!”--here she ceased her timid quest, But in her tone and look he read the rest. Oh, Isabella! I can half perceive That I might speak my grief into thine ear; If thou did’st ever anything believe. Believe how I love thee--believe how near My soul is to its doom: I would not grieve Thy hand by unwelcome pressing, would not fear Thine eyes by gazing; but I cannot live Another night, and not my passion shrive. Keats.