This reflection alone would hardly have been sufficient to smooth away disappointment from the old man’s brow, had it not also struck him that his niece had no great taste for old MSS., and that a new gown, with a fashionable breast-knot, or some Flanders lace, would probably be considered an equivalent for the original draft of Hamlet. ‘Come, come, let us hear about it?’ ‘But if you please, sir, we must wait for my cousin, my patron said—— ‘ ‘Maggie, Maggie!’ exclaimed the old man, running out into the little hall and calling up the stairs, ‘come down this moment; here is a present for you.’ At the unwonted news Maggie ran downstairs, arranging the last touches of her costume upon the way, and arriving in the parlour in the most charming state of flush and fervour. Entranced with her beauty, and conscious of having made another step towards the accomplishment of his hopes, William Henry devoured her with his eyes. It was seldom, indeed, that he committed such an imprudence—in company—but if he had kissed her, it is probable, under the circumstances, Mr. Erin would have made no remark, or set it down to Shakespearean enthusiasm. ‘Another MS., Maggie!’ he cried triumphantly. ‘Come, that is better than fifty presents,’ answered Maggie, beaming. ‘I forgive you for your trick upon me, uncle, with all my heart.’ ‘But what I have found is for _you_,’ said William Henry, firmly. ‘Just so,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, hurriedly, ‘the MS. or something of equal worth, that you would like vastly better. Let us see; now, let us see.’ [Illustration: ‘MAGGIE, MAGGIE, HERE IS A PRESENT FOR YOU.’] William Henry took out of his pocket an ancient, timeworn piece of paper, carefully unfolded it, and produced from it a lock of brown straight hair. ‘I thought you said it was a MS.,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, in a tone of extreme disappointment. ‘Why, this is only hair, and if I may be allowed to say so, not a very good specimen even of that.’ ‘Nevertheless, sir, such as it is, it is Shakespeare’s hair!’ ‘Shakespeare’s hair!’ echoed Mr. Erin, falling into rather than sitting down on the nearest chair; ‘it is impossible—you are imposing on me.’ William Henry turned very white, and looked very grave and pained. ‘Oh, uncle, how can you say such a thing!’ cried Margaret, plaintively: ‘poor Willie!’ ‘I did not mean that, my lad, of course,’ gasped Mr. Erin; ‘I scarcely know what I say. It seems too great a thing to be true. _His_ hair!’ He eyed it with speechless reverence, as it lay in his son’s open palm; his trembling fingers hovered round it, like the wings of a bird round the nest of its little ones, but did not venture to touch it. ‘Where was it found?’ he murmured. ‘Wrapped up in this paper, a letter to Anne Hathaway, which mentions the fact of his sending her the lock, and encloses some verses.’ ‘Is it possible?’ exclaimed the old man, with intense excitement; ‘oh, happy day! Read it, read it! I can see nothing clearly.’ The letter ran as follows: