‘September the Nynth, 1589.’ ‘Received of Master William Shakespeare the sum of five pounds and five shillings, good English Money, this Nynth day of October, 1589. ‘JOHN HEMYNGE.’ ‘This is indeed a most marvellous discovery, William Henry,’ said Mr. Erin, breaking a long silence, and regarding his son with a sort of devout amazement, such as might have been exhibited by some classic shepherd of old on finding the Tityrus he had been treating as a chawbacon was first cousin to Apollo. ‘You are certainly a most fortunate young man.—Maggie’ (for Maggie, learning that the visitors had departed, had joined them, full of vague expectancy), ‘see what your cousin has brought home with him.’ This appeal of Mr. Erin to his niece was significant in many ways. It would have been most natural in such a matter to have turned to Dennis, but for the moment he could not brook incredulity, nor even a critical examination of the precious manuscript. Moreover, he had said ‘your cousin,’ a relationship between the two young people to which he had never before alluded. It was plain that within the last five minutes William Henry had come nearer to the old man’s heart than he had been able to get in seventeen years. What followed was even still more expressive, for it took for granted an intimacy between his son and niece, which up to that moment he had studiously ignored. ‘Did you know anything,’ he added, ‘my girl, of this surprise which your cousin had in store for us?’ ‘I knew that there was something, uncle, though not from his lips. That is,’ she continued, with a faint flush, ‘I felt for days that there has been something upon William Henry’s mind, which I judged to be good news.—Was it not so, Willie?’ The young man bowed his head. The colour came into his face also. ‘How she must have watched him, and how rightly she had read his thoughts!’ was what he was saying to himself. Mr. Erin took no notice of either of them; his mind had reverted to the new-found treasure. ‘Look at it, Dennis,’ he cried. ‘The seals and paper are quite as they should be. I have no doubt of its being a genuine deed of the time. Then the signature—there are only two others in all the world, but I do think—just take this microscope (his own hand trembled so that he could scarcely hold it)—there can be no mistake about it. It is without the “a,” but it can be proved that he spelt it indifferently; and again, the receipt _has_ the “a,” an inconsistency which, in the case of a forgery, would certainly not have been overlooked. There can be no doubt of its being a genuine signature, can there?’ ‘That is a matter on which you are infinitely better qualified to judge than I am, Mr. Erin,’ was the cautious rejoinder. ‘Perhaps you had better consult the autograph in Johnson and Steevens’s edition.’ ‘Tush! Do you suppose that I have not every stroke and turn of it in my mind’s eye? Reach down the book, Maggie.’