Pressing his hands to his forehead he gazed bewilderedly at every familiar object. There was his desk--his armchair,--(he seemed to have just sprung out of that chair)--the fireplace, where now there was no fire but only a heap of white ashes in the grate--the telephone--ah, that telephone!--his papers, books, letters, ink, pens--ledgers--and a cheque-book,... On this last object his eyes rested meditatively. “It was a dream!” he muttered--“A horrible, horrible dream! Nothing else! It was a Dream!” “It WASN’T!” The answer came sharply and with remarkable emphasis. Josiah trembled violently. He was not yet alone then? A sudden thought struck him, and a light came into his eyes--a light new and strange, that gave them quite a youthful sparkle. “At any rate,”--he said--“I’ll be before Pitt this time! I’ll--I’ll cut him out!” And sitting down at his desk, he drew pen and paper to his aid, and wrote the following-- “My dear Sir,--I am exceedingly sorry to hear of your precarious condition of health, especially when I recall the strength and activity which used to distinguish you so greatly at one time when you did such excellent work for the firm. I understand from my overseer, Mr. Pitt, that a couple of hundred pounds will be useful to you at this particular juncture, and I have much pleasure in enclosing you a cheque for that amount as a slight testimony of my great appreciation of your former faithful services. Trusting you will pull through your illness, and assuring you of the great satisfaction it gives me to be of assistance to you in a time of need, believe me, with best wishes for a pleasant Christmas, “Yours obliged and sincerely. “JOSIAH MCNASON.” Taking his cheque-book, he wrote the required formula, that Two Hundred Pounds (200_l._) should be paid to William Dove “or order,” and signed his name “Josiah McNason” with a free proud dash under the signature that made it even more characteristic than usual. Putting letter and cheque in an envelope, he sealed and addressed it to “William Dove, Esq.,” and enclosed the whole packet in another envelope with a few words addressed to Mr. Pitt. “I think,”--he said then, with a bland, almost smiling air--“that will do for Mr. Pitt! Mr. Pitt will find himself out of court this time!” He got up from his desk and stood irresolute. Then he rang his bell. “This must be taken by special messenger,”--he said--“There’s no late post on Christmas Day!” He smiled, and rubbed his hands. At that instant the door opened, and his servant Towler appeared, with a pale, rather scared face. “Good-morning, Towler!” “Good-morning, sir! Glad to see you well, sir!” “Glad to see me well! Have I been ill, then?”