It was the custom of Mr. Erin’s company on Saturday nights to share after supper a bowl of punch between them, and for those who affected tobacco to light up their long days. Both the drinking and smoking were of a very moderate kind; while of song-singing, very common at that date, there was none. There was only one toast, given by the host in reverent tones, ‘To the memory of the immortal Shakespeare,’ and then they began to wrangle over disputed readings. On these occasions it was William Henry’s habit to quietly withdraw and seek Margaret in the withdrawing-room. As often as not, Frank Dennis did the like, when he would petition for a tune on the harpsichord, a thing the other never did. Margaret’s voice was music enough for him, especially in a _tête-à-tête_. But on this particular Saturday both young men remained with the rest, William Henry for a reason of his own, and Dennis out of courtesy to his host, who had promised to give his friends that night an antiquarian treat, consisting of the exhibition of a rare tract he had recently acquired. It was entitled ‘Stokes, the Vaulting Master,’ and full of engraved plates, to the outsider as destitute of interest as dinner-plates with nothing on them, but to this little band of antiquarians as the ‘meat’ of turtle to an alderman. If they didn’t say grace afterwards, it was because this precious gift had been vouchsafed to another and not to themselves; they sighed and murmured to themselves that ‘Erin ought to be a happy man.’ Having received their compliments with much complacency, their host, like an old man congratulated upon the possession of a young wife, locked the extract in his bookcase and put the key into his pocket, which was taken by the rest as a signal for departure. When they had all gone save Dennis, who, as a friend of the house, was always the last to go, William Henry drew from his breast pocket a piece of parchment with two seals hanging from it on slips. ‘I think, sir,’ said he modestly, ‘I have something rather curious to show you.’ ‘Eh, what?’ said Mr. Erin, knitting his brow in the depreciating manner peculiar to the examiner of all curios before purchase, ‘some old deed or another, I suppose.’ Then he turned very white and eager, and sat down with the document spread out before him. It was a note of hand of the usual kind, though of ancient date, and dealing with a very small sum of money; but if it had been a letter from a solicitor’s office acquainting him with the fact that he had been bequeathed ten thousand pounds, it could not have aroused in him greater interest and astonishment. It ran as follows:—‘One month from the date hereof I doe promyse to paye to my good and worthy friend John Hemynge the sum of five pounds and five shillings, English Moneye, as a recompense for his great trouble in settling and doinge much for me at the Globe Theatre, as also for hys trouble in going down for me to Stratford.—Witness my hand, ‘WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.