hand. It read as follows:--


"Be ready to meet your family at the new cottage on Heavytree Hill on
Christmas Day. Invite what friends you choose.

"HENRY YORK."


The letter was handed round in silence. The old man, with a look
alternating between hope and fear, gazed in the faces of the group.
The doctor looked up significantly, after a pause. "It's a forgery
evidently," he said in a low voice. "He's cunning enough to conceive it
(they always are); but you'll find he'll fail in executing it. Watch his
face!--Old man," he said suddenly, in a loud peremptory tone, "this is
a trick, a forgery, and you know it. Answer me squarely, and look me in
the eye. Isn't it so?"

The eyes of Plunkett stared a moment, and then dropped weakly. Then,
with a feebler smile, he said, "You're too many for me, boys. The Doc's
right. The little game's up. You can take the old man's hat;" and so,
tottering, trembling, and chuckling, he dropped into silence and his
accustomed seat. But the next day he seemed to have forgotten this
episode, and talked as glibly as ever of the approaching festivity.

And so the days and weeks passed until Christmas--a bright, clear day,
warmed with south winds, and joyous with the resurrection of springing
grasses--broke upon Monte Flat. And then there was a sudden commotion in
the hotel bar-room; and Abner Dean stood beside the old man's chair,
and shook him out of a slumber to his feet. "Rouse up, old man. York is