sort, and holding one of Gillott's
pens. It is in my inkstand now, I tell you. Anybody may see it. The
handwriting on the check, for such the document was, was the writing
of a female. It ran thus:--"London, midnight, March 31, 1862. Pay
the bearer one thousand and fitty pounds. Rachel Sidonia. To Messrs.
Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London."

"Noblest and best of women!" said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with
much reverence. "My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question
THAT signature?"

Indeed, the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of
the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to
be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment. There was
only one little difficulty, THE COUNTESS RACHEL DIED LAST OCTOBER.

I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with
a sneer.

"C'est a brendre ou a laisser," he said with some heat. "You literary
men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis. Your
box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know
you want money to pay dat rascal Tom's college bills." (This strange man
actually knew that my scapegrace Tom has been a source of great expense
and annoyance to me.) "You see money costs me nothing, and you refuse
to take it! Once, twice; will you take this check in exchange for your
trumpery snuff-box?"

What could I do? My poor granny's legacy was valuable and dear to me,
but after all a thousand guineas are not to be had every day. "Be it a
bargain," said I. "Shall we have a glass of wine on it?" says Pinto; and
to this proposal I also unwillingly acceded, reminding him, by the way,
that he had not yet told me the story of the headless man.

"Your poor gr-ndm-ther was right just now, when she said she was not my
first love. 'Twas one of those banale expressions" (here Mr. P. blushed
once more) "which we use to women. We tell each she is our first
passion. They reply with a similar illusory formula. No man is any
woman's first love; no woman any man's. We are in love in our nurse's
arms, and women coquette with their eyes before their tongue can form a
word. How could your lovely relative love me? I was far, far too old for
her. I am older than I look. I am so old that you would not believe my
age were I to tell you. I have loved many and many a woman before your
relative. It has not always been fortunate for them to love me. Ah,
Sophroni