‘Now, there I entirely differ from you,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin; ‘just mark the words “O cheryshe usse like the sweete chickenne thatte under the coverte offe herre spreadynge wings receyves herre lyttle Broode and hoverynge over themme keepes themme harmlesse and in safetye.” What tenderness there is in that “sweete chickenne.” Whereas a hen—a hen is tough. We must understand the expression of course as a general term for the female species of the fowl. None, to my mind, but the most determined and incorrigible caviller can have one word to say against it. I have settled that matter, I think, my dear, to your satisfaction; and do not suppose that what you say has annoyed me. If anything else strikes you, pray mention it. Objections from any source—provided only that they are _reasonable_’—a word he uttered very significantly—‘will always have my best attention; I welcome them.’ [Illustration: THE PROFESSION OF FAITH.] ‘Indeed, uncle, I am not so audacious as to propound objections. There was one thing, however, that seemed to me a little incomprehensible.’ ‘Possibly, my dear,’ he said, with a smile of contemptuous good-nature, which seemed to add, ‘I am not so rude as to say “probably.”’ He took his elbows off the MS., though he still hovered above it (like the chicken) while she ran her dainty finger over it, taking care, however, not to touch the paper. ‘Ah! here it is, “As snowe from the leffee tree.” Now, considering that snow falls in winter when the trees are bare, don’t you think the word should have been “leafless?”’ ‘An ordinary person would no doubt have written “leafless,”’ admitted Mr. Erin—an ingenious observation enough, since, in the first place, it suggested that an extraordinary genius could have done nothing of the kind, and secondly, it demanded no rejoinder; it gave the antiquary time to cast about him for some line of defence. He produced his microscope and examined the word with great intentness, but it was ‘leffee’ and not ‘leafless’ beyond all doubt. ‘It is probable,’ he presently observed, ‘that Shakespeare’s minute attention to nature may have caused him, when writing these most interesting words, to have a particular tree in his mind; when, indeed, we consider the topic on which he was writing—death—what is more likely than that his thoughts should have reverted to some churchyard yew? Now the yew, my child, is an evergreen.’ Here Frank Dennis’s well-known voice was heard in the little hall without. He must have started for London, therefore, on the instant that he received Margaret’s letter. Her heart had foreboded that it would be so, notwithstanding the pains she had taken to make it appear otherwise; she knew that it was her wish that had summoned him, and that he had been sent for, as it were, under false pretences. Much as she esteemed him, she would have preferred the appearance of any one else, however indifferent, such as Mr. Reginald Talbot.