was called, in that large sense. There was a
great attraction for that night—a new play.
It was called "THE IRON WAY!" and was
one of those wonderful realisations of everyday
existence, which are so tangible and so
minute, taken as an exact picture of the daily
life about us, that for the moment we are not
within the walls of the theatre, but are actually
pursuing our ordinary round. I had heard
marvels of the "bits of realism" in this vivid
work, and as Dumbleton was to play John
Bowers, the radical but virtuous engine-driver,
I made it a point that Mrs. Mantower, Isabelle,
and her Edgar should go together. I was really
excited about the matter.

On the Saturday night, I arrived not so
comfortable altogether as I might have been, had I
ordered dinner, say, half an hour before. As it
was, I passed from a hurried chop to a more
hurried dress-coat and et cæteras; and from this
again to a yet more hurried Hansom. Who was
responsible for this improper haste? Part, I will
confess, may be laid to the account of my own
fears, for I should not have liked to have kept my
Isabelle waiting. And this "not have liked"
may be accepted in a large and even handsome
sense; and, besides, I was busy looking for a
little trinket to clasp about the swelling neck
(large sense) of my Isabelle. Such little homage
neglected often led to her expressing her
disappointment in a very marked way. (Large sense
as before.) I think I had shown taste and
à-propos-ness, or appropriateness rather. For
it was a section of that great cable which has been
so recently laid, and which has bound the hearts
of two great nations to throb together in concert
and be cemented in a bond of union. The
section of the cable was very neatly mounted,
though the cable part rather suggested the heel
of a lady's boot, where the nails are in a
semicircle.

As I went along in the Hansom, I thought
of a neat turn with which I might present the
section of my cable. It might lure her thoughts
in the direction of the shares. "Let this," I
decided to say, "be an emblem of the line that is
laid from your heart to mine. Let this tiny
ornament be a symbol, &c." I had the idea—
that was enough. I could easily supply myself
with a happily turned phrase.

It was a little late. I ran up-stairs, and rushed
in with alacrity. They were both in the room.

"Here," said I, "is a little section of the
cable which I have brought you. Let this tiny
ornament——" Before I could get any further,
I saw that something was wrong. Instinctively
I withdrew my section, and looked from one to
the other.

"For shame of yourself!" said Mrs. Mantower.
"I am astonished at you!"

"Don't speak to him, mamma," said the
lovely Isabelle. "What does he care?"

"About what?" I asked, simply.

"Just listen to him," said Isabelle, now
sobbing; "any one in his position to ask that."

"What nonsense," I said, a little incautiously.
"This is some of the old story."

"Old story!" she repeated, hysterically.
"Ah! that's it. Take him away, mamma. Let
him go to his creature."

"Go to my creature!" I repeated, amazed.
"This is folly. Why, look here! Look at
what I have been occupying the whole day to
get for you! A section of the cable, which I had
hoped would make two nations—or hearts, I
should say—throb."

As I approached her with the little trinket,
she gave a scream and sank down on the sofa.
I was bewildered. Her mother, a good woman,
beckoned me softly out of the room. At the
bottom of the stairs, she said,

"Why did you do it? I know you meant
nothing, but she saw you with a girl—a woman
—a female—a lady, to-day at a shop door."

I recollected it all. I had met my little
cousin Kitty, and was glad to see her. A pretty
little creature, with whom, I ween, very few
could be compared.

"Will it be credited," said I, indignantly,
"the business I was on with little Kitty? Look
at this," pulling out the trinket, "a section of
the cable which was to adorn her neck." (And
I motioned upwards.)

She was a worthy woman, and I suppose took
me to mean that little Kitty had helped me to
choose the section of the cable.

"Good creature!" she said. "Well, I tell
you, leave it to me." (She absently took up
the cable.) "You go on to the theatre, or
anywhere you like. Come back in a couple of
hours, and all will be right."

The overture must have been playing at that
moment. I accepted with alacrity, and hurried
away.

"Between ourselves," I said aloud in the
cab, "I shall enjoy THE IRON WAY twice as
much. I mean," I added nervously, as though
some one might have overheard me, "I shall
have more room in the Box." Morally speaking,
what could make up for the loss of her,
who, with all her failings, had the largest share
of my heart. "Shares," I repeated, musingly,
making it plural; "perhaps the largest of any
one."

There was an enormous crowd at the theatre.
How lucky I had taken places (in the large
sense). The play had begun. As I entered,
there was a storm of applause, for one of the
grand "set scenes" had just opened—a factory
interior; four floors seen all at, once. There
were real power-looms all at work, real yarns,
real spindles, real steam, real factory boys and
girls, overseers, and the real din and whirl,
accompanied by fluttering music in the
orchestra; and above, in front, were the machines
that travelled forwards and backwards with
the usual jerk and stoppage. The girls picked
up the broken threads. I never heard such
applause as arose at this wonderful bit of
realism, and it shows to what perfection the
stage is coming. In time it may lead to a
curious inversion, and we may have to look for
real practical life on the boards of the stage,
while theatricals will be confined to our own