to the window to examine it, that he upset his
desk, and losing his balance, plunged head foremost after it, and lay
amidst the ruins covered with books, ink, and papers.

"Indeed, sir, I hope you are not hurt, and beg of you to excuse me,"
said May, trying to raise him up, while she laughed until tears ran
down her cheeks. "There, sir, sit in the arm-chair, and let me wipe
the ink from your face."

"Let the ink be, May. Only tell me how this will has been so
unexpectedly recovered, for it is, I am willing to swear on the Holy
Evangely, the identical one I drew up the day your uncle died," he
said, quite unruffled by the accident, and examining the document with
a close scrutinizing look.

"Are you perfectly satisfied?" asked May, gravely.

"Perfectly," he replied.

"Then I can only tell you that it is a case of conscience which I am
not at liberty to reveal; indeed, I would rather tear that will into
fragments than reveal its history. Heaven has interposed in answer to
prayer in this matter; an immortal soul has been led back to God.
Justice is satisfied. The widow, the orphan, the destitute will be
comforted--"

"And you will be as rich as Croesus!" said Mr. Fielding, with a
delighted look.

"Oh, sir! Oh, Mr. Fielding, what shall I do?" exclaimed May, bursting
into a fit of crying.

"What is the matter? What in the world are you crying about?"

"I don't want to be rich, sir; indeed, I never thought of myself. Oh,
dear! I shall be so trammelled, so tempted with all this. I don't
want it, sir."

"You are a fool. What do you want, boy?" said Mr. Fielding angrily to
a boy, who was standing at the door, laughing immoderately, though in a
suppressed manner.

"I have a note from Father Fabian, sir," said the urchin, who gave him
the note, and rushed out of the office, while his laughter,
unsuppressed, made the street echo with its mirthful sound.

Mr. Fielding tore open the note, and read:--

"DEAR SIR: I find that it will be impossible for me to see you, as I
wished to do, to-day. Ere this you have been informed, no doubt, by
May Brooke of the recovery of the lost will. I can only say, with the
permission of the penitent, who, through the fear of the Judgment of
Almighty God, and a sincere desire for salvation, restored it; that it
is the same which you drew up the day Mr. Stillinghast was taken ill;
which declaration has been made to me under an oath of the most solemn
character. You may, t