“Proof, eh!  I wonder if your proof will stand the test of the law?”

“I should think so.  But I can impart nothing more on the subject until you promise me, on your word of honor, to ask me no questions.  I will promise you, on the other hand, to tell you all that is necessary on the subject,” said May, earnestly.

“Heaven save us, when women begin with law!  My dear little foolish child, I am not the Law; I am only its minister, and am bound, under oath, to perform its functions faithfully,” said Mr. Fielding, opening his eyes wide with astonishment at May’s strange proposition.

“All of which I am perfectly aware; but as your honor, or the honor of the law will not be in the least involved in this affair, I must persevere in my request.”

“You’ll have your way there’s not the slightest doubt—­if you can get it.  But can’t you trust my discretion—­my judgment—­my—­my ahem! friendship for you, pendente lite.”

“No, sir; I can trust to nothing but a promise such as I require from you; a promise which, if you knew all, you would voluntarily, from the best and most generous impulses of your heart, offer,” said May, standing up on a chair, that she might converse more at her ease, by bringing her face to a level with his.

“I will promise this, and no more,” he replied, after thinking some minutes.  “If, on producing your proof, I find it irrefragable, and can proceed in this matter without carrying it to court, or bringing in additional counsel—­that is, if I can manage it all myself, which I doubt, I will be silent.  Men—­even lawyers, are not apt to die of ungratified curiosity.  Will that answer you, ma’am?”

“I think so,” said May, after some deliberation.

“Now produce your proof?”

“Here it is, sir.  Here is my uncle’s will, which has been so long mislaid.  I presume this is proof sufficient,” said May, spreading out the lost will before him.  But such was his surprise, and so great his eagerness to take it 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—­”