The remark was so unexpected, and delivered in such a quiet tone, that for a moment the antiquary was dumbfounded, and between disbelief and expectancy made no reply. ‘My dear Samuel,’ he murmured presently, ‘is it possible you can be serious, that you have in your possession——’ ‘Nay, sir,’ interrupted the young man smiling; ‘I never said that. I do not possess it, but within the last few days I have known of the existence of such a manuscript.’ ‘You have known and not told me!’ exclaimed the antiquary reproachfully; ‘why, I might have died in the meantime!’ ‘Then you would have seen Shakespeare, and he would have told you all about it,’ returned William Henry lightly. ‘Do not answer your father like that,’ said Margaret in low, reproving tones. It was plain, indeed, that Mr. Erin was greatly agitated. His eyes were fixed upon his son, but without speculation in them. He looked like one in a trance, to whom has been vouchsafed some wondrous vision. ‘I know what is best,’ returned the young man under his breath, pressing Margaret’s shoulder with his hand. His arm still hung over her chair; his manner was studiously unmoved, as becomes the master of a situation. ‘Where is it?’ gasped the old man. ‘In the Temple. I have not yet obtained permission to bring it away. Until I could do that I felt it was useless to speak about the matter—that I should only be discredited. Even you yourself, unless you saw the manuscript, might hesitate to believe in its authenticity.’ ‘The manuscript?’ exclaimed Mr. Erin, his mind too monopolised by the splendour of the discovery to descend to detail; ‘you have really seen it, then, with your own eyes? An unacted play of Shakespeare’s!’ ‘An unpublished one, at all events. I have certainly seen it, and within these two hours, but only in my patron’s presence.’ ‘He said that whatever you found was to be yours,’ exclaimed Mr. Erin petulantly. ‘Well, up to this time he has been as good as his word,’ said William Henry smiling. ‘Indeed he has,’ remarked Margaret. ‘We must not be ungrateful, uncle.’ ‘Nevertheless, people should perform what they, promise,’ observed the antiquary severely. For the second time Margaret felt a gentle pressure upon her shoulder; it seemed as though Willie had whispered, ‘You hear that.’ ‘The play is called “Vortigern and Rowena,”’ continued the young man. ‘An admirable subject,’ murmured the antiquary ecstatically. ‘It is, of course, historical; there are Hengist and Horsus.’ ‘Horsa,’ suggested Mr. Erin. ‘Shakespeare writes it Horsus; Horsa was perhaps his sister.’ ‘Perhaps,’ admitted the antiquary with prompt adhesion. ‘And the treatment? How does it rank as regards his other productions?’ ‘Nay, sir, that is for you to judge; I am no critic.’ ‘But you tell me that your patron will not part with it.’ ‘I have not yet persuaded him to do so; but I by no means despair of it, and in the meantime I have a copy of it.’ ‘My _dear_ Samuel!’