such a proceeding been in any way possible.
But a moment more—a hush of expectancy—
and the theatre rang with loud, reiterated
plaudits, and his eyes were fixed spell-bound
upon the stage. No running away now. He
could not have stirred to save his life.

A slight, girlish creature, lithe and graceful
of form, with a shining, pearly, satin robe falling
around her in rich folds, whereon there was
a delicious, ever-varying play of light and shade.
A round, well-poised head, whose pure outline
was well displayed by the simple arrangement
of her dark hair. A face, not perfectly regular
in feature, but so instinct with genius, lighted
so manifestly by a bright soul within, as to
impress all those who looked upon it with a sense
of the highest beauty. The brow was candid
and smooth; the eyes innocently vivacious as a
child's. Only in the delicate mouth there was
a suggestion of sadness; a little drooping curve
that told of capacity for suffering, and hinted
all the pathos and the passion which that bright
countenance had power to express. This was
Juliet—Juliet as she might have been seen in
the flesh centuries ago in old Verona, and who
now stood bowing with a sober, modest grace
in acknowledgment of the loud greeting of a
crowd of nineteenth-century Englishmen. Then
there was silence, and she spoke.

There are voices that speak to the ear, and
flatter the sense with sweetness, yet move one no
more than the melodious tinkle of a musical-box.
Other voices vibrate subtly through the hearer's
heart, and steal upon his inmost sympathies.
Such a voice was Juliet's, pure, fresh, thrilling;
with, at times, a little natural tremor in its tone
like the shimmering of the air on a sultry summer's
day. Upon one hearer's heart, at least, that
voice fell like sweet music, and thrilled it to
the core. Was it pain or ecstasy to see her
once again? To see her thus, beautiful,
brilliant, wielding the sceptre of genius in her
girlish hand, compelling all around to own its
power for the moment, even though the spell
were but of brief duration—and as far removed
from him, as the silver moon that was shining
then above the flaring gas-lights of the theatre!
He sat like one in a dream throughout the
whole play. The white-haired man vainly tried to
elicit his opinion of the new actress. The young
clerks' prating fell unheeded on his ear. Once
only was he aroused from his trance. It was
when at the termination of the second act, the
door of a private box was thrown noisily open,
and the sound attracting his attention, he
involuntarily looked up and beheld the entrance
of the new comers. The next instant he started
back and shrank down into the shade. In
the front of the box sat Lady Popham,
bewigged, bejewelled, bedizened after her manner,
with the great gold eye-glass in full force.
Near to her, with his back to the stage, sat
Arthur Skidley, negligently scanning the house
through an opera-glass. And behind her ladyship's
chair, his pale handsome face and black
hair relieved against the dark red lining of the
box, lounged Alfred Trescott. His mood
seemed to be unusually subdued and silent, and
he bent down now and then to listen, or reply to
the restless old lady's remarks, with a kind of
languid deference that did not ill become him.

Clement's pulse beat quicker on the next
occasion of Juliet's coming on to the stage.
"Will she betray any consciousness of his
presence?" was the first thought that flashed
through his mind; and then he contemned
himself bitterly for a fool. The question
was soon answered. Juliet was Juliet still.
All her faculties were absorbed in the portrayal
of the varying, swiftly changing passions of
love, joy, grief, terror, despair. With every
scene the enthusiasm of the audience rose;
until, at the final fall of the curtain, the cheers
were overwhelming. The heroine of the night
was led forward to bow her thanks, and to
receive sundry bouquets tossed in quick succession
on to the stage. These she took simply;
without either exaggerated demonstrations of
gratitude, or offensive indifference. Absence of
affectation, indeed, marked all she did. As she
left the stage, the actor who had been playing
Romeo perceived one flower lying neglected—
a crimson camellia of great beauty—and seemed
about to return for it, but she held back his
hand, and with a last low curtsey, disappeared.
Clement rose to go with a dizzy throbbing
head, and eyes dimmed with tears, that the
pathetic close of the marvellous love-story had
drawn from him. A stream of people poured
out of the theatre pell-mell. The white-haired
man (who had been blubbering unrestrainedly
behind a yellow pocket-handkerchief) now
asserted himself by much severe criticism and
allusions to the "days of yore." The young
clerks had returned to their one absorbing
topic. The last words Clement heard them utter,
were expressive of a conviction that "Jim"
knew what he was about. That others might be
wrong, or might be right, but that "Jim" was
safe "to run on the right side of the post, to know
when he was well off, and to recognise on which
side of his bread the butter lay." Shakespeare's
tragedy of Romeo and Juliet had apparently
caused but slight and temporary interruption
to the thread of this interesting discussion.
As Clement reached the doorway and felt the
cool pure air (cool and pure by contrast) upon
his forehead, a stately equipage drew up beneath
the portico. Into it, escorted by her great-
nephew, skipped Lady Popham. On the pavement
stood Alfred Trescott, bowing "good
night." The overcoat that he wore was thrown
back, and in the instant that he looked upon
him, it flashed on Clement that he missed a
flower from Trescott's breast, and that the
neglected crimson blossom lying on the stage
had been thrown by his hand.

It was long past eleven o'clock when Penelope
Charlewood, sitting alone in the comfortless
little parlour with her work in her hand, heard the
key turn in the door, and went into the passage
to receive her brother. They spoke in whispers,
for Mrs. Charlewood had gone to rest, and every
sound penetrated through the slight building.

"Penny, I'm so sorry you sat up, my dear."

"I had to sit up, Clem, to finish stitching