The tide of Mr. Snell's gossip was cut short
here by the entrance into the green-room of
Mr. Alaric Allen, the London manager, whose
supposed approval of poor Mabel had excited
such commotion in the theatre. This gentleman,
besides being the manager of a leading
London theatre, was also one of the most
accomplished actors of his day. He was at
present performing in Dublin as a "star."
And we may know positively, what Mr. Snell
could only make a shrewd guess at, by dint of
piecing together such scraps of second-hand
information as he could gather, and which he
was never deterred from availing himself of by
any foolish scruples of delicacy or honour. It
was true that Mr. Alaric Allen, lessee and
manager of the Royal Thespian Theatre, London,
had been so struck by Mabel's fresh grace
and dramatic power, that he had offered her an
engagement for the following season at his
theatre, promising to bring her out with every
advantage that the resources of his establishment
could command; for it was a time of peculiar
dearth and barrenness in the theatrical field,
and a novelty—above all, a young novelty—was
being sought for by more than one enterprising
manager. Besides, too, the only successful
début, for a long time past, had taken place at
the theatre of a rival manager, whom Mr. Alaric
Allen cordially hated, and to compete with
Dobbs, and to beat him on his own ground,
would be a very agreeable thing for Mr. Alaric
Allen. Dobbs's débutante was a Pomeranian
lady, who, oddly enough, talked with a slight
brogue, and who—her spécialité being rather the
pantomimic than the dramatic art—had pieces
written for her in which she invariably crossed
a ravine or a mountain torrent, or even simply
passed from house-top to house-top, on the
slack rope. This feat, very gracefully performed
in a very airy costume, had taken the town by
storm, and for a long time had brought large
sums of money to Mr. Dobbs's exchequer.
But at last the town appeared to have had
enough of the slack rope; and, as Mr. Dobbs
pathetically observed, even the tight rope—for
the Pomeranian lady tried that—failed to pull
the houses up again.

"I think we'll do a little better than the
Pomeranian," said Mr. Alaric Allen to his wife,
when they were discussing Mabel. Mr. Allen's
theatre was really one of the best conducted and
of the highest standing in London. He himself
was a man of considerable culture outside his
own especial art, and he had an honest love for
acting which made him desire to present his
plays to the public interpreted by the best
performers whose services he was able to
command.

It was settled that Mabel should remain in
Mr. Barker's company for a couple of months
longer, and should then proceed to London to
commence rehearsals, so as to be ready to make
her début at a favourable period of the London
season. Juliet was the character fixed upon for
her first appearance.

"It's hackneyed," said Mr. Allen, "but
there's nothing better. Above all, as you're
so young, why the very idea of a Juliet under
forty will be an attraction of itself."

Mr. Barker, a good-natured man enough, and
very willing to oblige his metropolitan brother-
manager, had promised that Mabel should have
more than one opportunity of playing Juliet
before leaving Dublin. As he could not keep
the young actress in his own theatre, he had no
objection to make her farewell performances as
brilliant as possible.

"Well, all the world is going to London, I
declare!" said Mrs. Walton to her niece. "There's
young Trescott, and yourself. Fancy that rich
old lady taking him to town with her. They
say that she expects him to do wonders in the
musical world."

"And so he will, Mary!" said her
husband.

"No doubt of it," cried Jack.

"We shall see," said Janet.

"But our Mabel is sure to succeed," said Mrs.
Walton. There was a unanimous chorus of
"Sure—quite sure;" whereupon Madame
Bensa's baby, who was present, swelled the
sound with gurgling hilarity, and crowed and
kicked again.

"If I do," said Mabel, between smiling and
crying, "it will be thanks to you all. Do you
remember the Arabian Nights story you told
me when I first came here, Uncle John? Well,
but I am no such heroine as the Princess was.
She had to toil up the hill all alone. Now, I
have dear loving voices to cheer my way, and
drown the airy sound of taunting and derision."

"I'm not sure," said Janet, musingly, "that,
although the way would be drearier, a woman
might not be the more likely to come to the
mountain-top if she were all alone."

"Well, cousin Janet, perhaps that depends
upon what she wants to find when she gets to
the summit. The magic tree has different
sounds for different ears. And mine whispers
me, waving its branches and rustling its leaves
melodiously, 'Here under my shade is a rest
and a shelter where you may abide in peace
with the hearts that love you.'"

END OF BOOK IV.

THE SPIRIT OF PROGRESS.

ANCIENT mythology states that, previous to
the Iron and Silver Ages, there was one which,
on account of its excellence, was called
Golden, during which our planet was a paradise,
and primitive man lived in a state of happy
innocence. The present age has been named the
Age of Brass, rather satirically, however, than
philosophically; but is generally included under
the term of the Iron Age, which has now
endured for at least six thousand years. In the
age that preceded, and which has lately
received the title of pre-historic, and of which we
know nothing except from the scattered