Strange to say, Mr. Samuel Erin, though it was at his own express desire that Frank Dennis had been invited, was just at that moment of the same way of thinking as his niece. If that little difficulty about the epithet, ‘leffee,’ had not occurred, all would have been well. This new discovery of the Confession, had it been flawless, must needs have converted the most confirmed of sceptics, and, in his crowning triumph, he would have forgiven the young fellow all his former doubts; but, though to the eye of faith this little flaw was of no consequence, it would certainly give occasion not only for the ungodly to blaspheme—for that they would do in any case—but to the waverer to cling to his doubts. If, on the spur of the moment, Mr. Erin could have explained the matter to his own satisfaction, he would have felt no qualms, but he was secretly conscious that that theory of the evergreen tree would not hold water. It might satisfy a modest inquirer like Margaret, but a hard-headed, unimaginative fellow like Frank Dennis would not be so easily convinced. As for William Henry, although Frank and he were by no means ill friends, it was not likely that he should have been pleased to see this visitor, whose presence must needs interrupt the _tête-à-tête_ with which he now indulged himself every evening with Margaret; and, though he was no longer jealous of his former rival, it was certain that he would much have preferred his room to his company. The welcome that was given by all three to the new comer was, however, cordial enough. ‘You are come, Dennis,’ cried Mr. Erin, taking the bull by the horns, ‘in the very nick of time. William Henry has to-day found a treasure, beside which his previous discoveries sink into insignificance, “A Profession of Faith,” by Shakespeare, written from end to end in his own hand.’ ‘That must indeed be interesting,’ said Frank. His tone, however, was without excitement, and mechanical. His countenance, which had been full of friendship (though when turned to Margaret it had had, she thought, an expression of gentle melancholy), fell as he uttered the words; a gravity, little short of disapproval, seemed to take possession of it. ‘Hang the fellow!’ murmured Mr. Erin to himself, ‘he’s beginning to pick holes already.’ ‘It is the most marvellous and conclusive evidence,’ he went on aloud, ‘of Shakespeare’s adherence to the Protestant faith that heart can desire; but there’s a word here that we are in doubt about. Just read the MS. and see if anything strikes you as anomalous.’