than any other breed, and who, though evidently
flattering himself that the world supposed him
to be buried in slumber, was regarding everything
that passed with one bright observant
half-open eye. This was Lingo, Mr. Shaw's
dog, companion, and only friend. Lingo's
fidelity, accomplishments, sagacity, and high
moral worth, were the only themes on which it
was possible to elicit anything like enthusiasm
from old Jerry O'Shaughnessy, alias Shaw; but
on this topic the old man would dilate for hours
to a sympathetic listener. Lingo was a
celebrated character in theatrical circles in Ireland,
and there were mysterious rumours that Jerry
Shaw believed Lingo's canine form to be
animated by the spirit of a departed friend of his
early life; but when such whispers reached the
old man's ears he would sniff and scoff and snap
in his abrupt queer way, and aver that he had
never known any man whose virtues could
compare to Lingo's, and that if such an one could
be found he would cheerfully walk fifty miles
barefoot to behold them.

Mrs. Walton shook hands with the two men,
and then presented Mabel.

"My niece, Miss Bell," said she.

Mr. Trescott had partly advanced on seeing
Mabel, and then stopped as if uncertain how to
greet her; but she held out her hand at once.

"You have only known me by my true name,
Mr. Trescott," she said, smiling. "It has been
thought well to give me another for the present.
I hope little Corda is well?"

"Quite well, thank you, Miss—a—Miss
Bell. She will be so rejoiced to see you."

"Mr. Shaw, let me introduce you to my
niece. A young aspirant for histrionic honours."

Mr. Shaw rose and gave his head a sudden
jerk that was intended for a bow, and then sat
down again. "You've chosen a bad trade,
miss," said he, encouragingly. He spoke with
singular abruptness, and in short sentences,
which seemed to come out of his mouth in spite
of him, and which invariably ended in a
prolonged sniff that wrinkled up his nose and curled
his upper lip.

"I hope not," said Mabel, smiling. " My
aunt has not found it so very bad. Poor old
boy, poor old dog. Is he yours? May I pat
him?"

"You may—if he'll let you. He won't let
everybody."

Lingo, however, was graciously pleased to
permit Mabel's little hand to caress his rough
head, and he even wagged his tail in a faint and
lazy way.

"He likes her," said Mr. Shaw, turning to
Mrs. Walton. "He decidedly likes her. And
I tell you what, ma'am; I'd rather take his
opinion than most people's. I've never known
him wrong yet."

By-and-by more members of the company
began to drop in, and by about a quarter-past
ten they were nearly all assembled. There was
Miss Lydia St. Aubert, very tall, very thin,
with a head too small for her height, and dark
eyes too big for her face. She wore a crop of
waving ringlets, and a little infantine straw
bonnet, the strings of which she untied as soon
as she came into the room—not that Miss
Lydia St. Aubert was very young or very
childish. She had a husband and three children,
and had not escaped the cares of life, poor
woman! But her small head and curly crop gave
her a juvenile air, and she rather acted up to
her appearance in private life.

There were the Copestakes, husband and
wife; he about fifty years of age, she at least
ten years older. They were in the last depths
of shabbiness: not from destitution—for
between them they earned an income more than
sufficient to have kept them in respectability—
but because they spent an absurdly large
proportion of their weekly earnings upon eating and
drinking of the most costly viands they could
procure.

There was Mrs. Darling, fat and stately, with
a black satin reticule full of white wool, and a
pair of wooden knitting-needles, wherewith she
was manufacturing some mysterious article of
clothing. There was the low comedian, bitter
and sententious, and remarkably neat about his
gloves and boots. The walking gentleman
(whose wife was a dancer), neither so young,
nor so smart, nor so good-looking as he once
had been, but with a great deal of elegance—
in the modern comedy style—and an amazing
collection of riddles culled from all the
newspaper columns of " Varieties " and "Random
Readings" for the last fifteen years. Last of all
came in Mr. Moffatt, the manager, with his
daughter on his arm, and accompanied by Mr.
Wilfred J. Percival, the leading gentleman,
announced in the bills as being "from the
principal theatres in the United States of America."

Mr. Moffatt was very cordial in his greetings
to his company—almost too cordial, in fact, for
cordiality did not seem to be naturally the most
striking trait in Mr. Moffatt's character, and
the effect of this sudden gush of it was a little
oppressive. Mr. Moffatt was short and spare,
with a close-shaven face and little cold grey
eyes. His voice had a covert ill-tempered
snarl in it, which was audible even in his most
amiable moments. Miss Moffatt was a plump
young lady—perhaps I might go so far as to
say a fat young lady—with a round fresh-
coloured face, wide red-lipped mouth, turned-
up nose, and bright blue eyes, with a strong
cast in them. Mr. Wilfred J. Percival was a
tall sallow gentleman, with a long chin and
retreating forehead; and he wore a brown velvet
collar to his coat, over which a gold chain was
artfully disposed in many a cunning twist.

Mabel was received very graciously by
Mr. Moffatt, and very condescendingly by his
daughter. The latter was showily dressed,
and especially revelled in bonnet-ribbon, of
which she had a remarkable quantity of a very
bright blue colour disposed in bows upon her
head-gear.

"I'm glad you're a brune," said Miss Moffatt,
with elaborately fine u and French roll of the
r (Miss Moffatt had been two years in a
cheap boarding-school near Calais, and was a
very accomplished person indeed): " so glad.