unconsciously threw herself at the feet of her visitor, and bathed them with her tears.

"My dear young lady," cried the astonished Shakspeare, "kneel not to me, I am doing but what the common offices of humanity require; and happy, I do assure you, if I may, perchance, be instrumental towards the preservation of your father's life."

It was at this moment that the door opening, presented Dr. Hall to their view, a man of strong talent and much philanthropy; and who, from the scene thus unexpectedly brought before him, soon felt deeply interested in the welfare of Montchensey and his daughter. He had, fortunately, from the detail which Shaw had given him, taken care to come accompanied by a surgeon of the name of Court *, and whom he now directed to bleed his patient copiously, at the same time assuring the agitated and almost sinking Helen, that as far as he could at present judge, her father was likely to do well; adding, however, that rest and quietude were essential

* A gentleman of this name was at that time practising as a surgeon at Stratford.

to his recovery. "It was on this very account Doctor," observed Shakspeare, "that I have been recommending my house to Mr. Montchensey, and I trust, that the injunction you have now given, will induce him to accept the offer."

"How can I sufficiently thank you, my noble friend," faintly articulated Montchensey, as the abstraction of blood was rapidly relieving his pain and difficulty of breathing, "how can I sufficiently thank you for this unlooked-for kindness!" Here, however, the tide of acknowledgment, which was about to flow with more energy than was consistent with the safety of his patient, was interrupted by Dr. Hall; when Helen, turning upon our gentle bard one of those ardent looks of gratitude and intense feeling, to which no language can do justice, tremulously, though somewhat rapturously, exclaimed, "Let me then supply the place of my dear father, Sir, and say, that to be thus indebted will, I am certain, prove the most heartsoothing recollection of our lives."

"You are a skilful flatterer, my lovely lady," returned the poet smiling, " and I almost begin

to fear that, old as I am, I am incautiously placing myself within the reach of danger; but I am willing, nevertheless, to endure the hazard, and therefore hope that Dr. Hall will not object to the immediate removal of his patient."

"I must say," replied the Doctor, "that I think such a step would not be advisable tonight; but if Mr. Montchensey, from the operation he has now undergone, and from what I shall order for him, should prove, as I have little doubt will be the case, much better in the morning, I shall then, certainly, as the distance is so trifling, not venture to oppose your arrangement."

"Be it so," rejoined the bard "and now, my worthy friends," he added, "leaving you under the further direction of your kind physician, I heartily wish you a good night, trusting that nothing will occur to prevent your safe lodgment under my roof in the morning."

Mine host, and the old grey-headed groom, were at the foot of the stairs 'as Shakspeare descended from the chamber of Montchensey. "Here is Peter, Sir," cried Shaw, "so sorely distressed about his master and young mistress,

that I promised to see you about them; we have been waiting on this spot for some time, to catch a sight of you, and I shall be mainly glad, for his sake, if you can give us any comfortable tidings of the poor gentleman."

There was that, indeed, in the time-worn but speaking countenance of the aged domestic, which was well fitted to attract attention; for it was, on this occasion, in a very high degree indicative of fidelity and attachment: "If I lose my master, Sir, he exclaimed, my next sad duty I will be to follow my dear young lady to her grave, and then, the sooner I am laid in the kirk-yard myself the better."

"Be of good cheer, my friend,” replied his kind auditor," for your master is, I trust, recovering fast. To-morrow he will be under my roof, and you and I, Peter, and your young mistress will nurse him and take care of him until he gets well." Tears of gratitude gushed from the brightening eyes of the old man ; whilst Shakspeare, turning to the honest landlord of the Falcon, added, "As for you, mine host, I think I know you sufficiently to believe that you will not murmur at the motives which induce

me to rob you for a season of your guest; and I request you, therefore, to tell Dr. Hall, when he leaves his patient, that I will thank him to step over to New-Place for a few minutes before he returns home."

With a heart satisfied as to the part he had performed, Shakspeare re-entered his dwelling, and hastened to acquaint his wife with the company he had reason to expect on the following day. With her and his daughter Judith, and the little Elizabeth, he now found Mrs. Hall, who, having heard from Shaw an account of the accident, and likewise understood that her father had interested himself in behalf of the strangers, was anxious, more especially as her husband was detained longer than she expected, to learn further particulars.

"And who, my dear Sir," said Mrs. Hall, as her father entered the room, "is this unfortunate gentleman? for, from the description, imperfect as it was, which I received from Shaw, I cannot help feeling much both for him and his daughter." "His name," replied the bard, "is Montchensey, and it is one of which I have a faint recollection as somehow or other con