tend, afraid to settle on the feeding-ground, and
yet circling in still narrowing rounds until they
alight at last,—-fluttered capriciously hither and
thither about the main point of interest in her
mother's letter, without at first fastening on it.
She pictured to herself, Dooley and her mother
seated in Miss Charlewood's little carriage. The
country road that she knew so well; the look
of the cottage with its climbing roses coming
into bloom; Penelope's hard resolute face and
keen bright eyes. Then Augusta; what was
her future husband like? It was odd he should
be Irish. And that cousin, that Miss O'Brien,—
was she——? Ah, then the fluttering fancy
furled its wings and dropped and brooded !
"What was this? This dull numb feeling at the
heart, that was more like a pain of which we
are dimly conscious in our sleep, than real
waking suffering? What was amiss? What had
she lost or gained since an hour ago, that made
this strange difference in her out-look on the
world? "I told him that day at Eastfield," she
murmured dreamily, "that he would find some
one who would drive the thought of me from his
mind; or at least leave me only a humble niche
there, that he could look on with calm
friendliness. Yes: I knew it. I said so. And he was
so sure,—so fixed,—so certain that he could
never change or waver! I hope she is worthy
of him. He is good. I am very glad——No!"
she cried suddenly, pressing her hands upon
her hot brow, suffused all at once with a deep
crimson flush. "No, no, no; I am not glad.
How poor I am in my own eyes! How mean,
selfish, pitiful; but I won't lie to myself. I am
not glad. I am sorry. / who gave him so much
pain,—I who was so unbending with him, and
repulsed his love so firmly,—/ am grudging him
this happiness at the bottom of my heart.
What if he has forgotten his fancy quickly?
Ought I not to rejoice that the hurt is not so
deep a one as he thought? I could not love
him as he wished, but I told him proudly that
I should always be his faithful, grateful friend.
I was so lofty and secure of myself, and now—
For a miserable slight to my self-love, I cannot
be glad in my friend's gladness! O Mabel,
Mabel! are you vain and envious and mean?
I did not know you to be so, Mabel Earnshaw.
And now that I see you as you are, I am
astonished and ashamed."

The scalding tears ran down her flushed
cheeks slowly.

She went to the open window and leaned
out. The air was still and sweet, and the clear
dark sky seemed to soothe the throbbing of
her temples. There was no sound save faint
snatches of a mournful Irish song that came
now and then, softened and sweetened by the
distance, from some ship at anchor in the river.

Mabel set her thoughts to look forward into
the future. Into the career she hoped to make,
the toils and fears and pleasures of her art.
She thought of her uncle's story of the Arabian
princess, who shut her ears to the distracting
voices, and neither faltered nor looked back.

"Ah, that looking back!" said Mabel to herself.
"That is fatal. I may turn when I am at the top,
but not yet. And then, too," she said, wiping
her wet eyes with a child-like half-sad smile,
"the view is always so much wider and better
from the summit!"

CHAPTER VIII. LINGO IS CARRIED AWAY BY HIS
FEELINGS.

THE first two or three weeks of the theatrical
season at Kilclare were very successful. The
company advanced and secured themselves
in public favour. Mr Wilfred J. Percival and Miss
Lydia St. Aubert were the "bright particular stars
stars" of the tragic portions of the performances;
whilst comedy and farce were supported by
the lively exertions of Mr Snell, the low
comedian, Mrs. Walton, and Miss Annette
Moffatt. The latter young lady had been
christened Ann, and commonly called Nancy
up to twelve years of age; but after that time
she was sent to school in France, and returned
to her native country as Annette. Miss Moffatt
prided herself upon her vocal accomplishments,
which, to say truth, were not of a very high
order. She had a shrill weak soprano voice,
very uncertain in intonation; but she would
rattle off an arch song, or give forth a plaintive
ballad with so much aplomb, and such an evident
conviction that she was singing to absolute
perfection, that people began to believe she was
a charming vocalist in spite of their ears. Miss
Moffatt chiefly professed what she called "the
Vestris business;" and the mention in the play-
bill of the character which Miss Moffatt was to
play, was invariably followed by the words,
"with songs." And so much was this a matter
of course, that when on one occasion Miss
Moffatt was about to display the versatility of
her talents in pantomime, the printer, from the
sheer force of habit, put into the playbill the
surprising announcement, "Lisette, a dumb
girl (with songs), by Miss Annette Moffatt."

The manager's daughter was very amiable and
condescending to Mabel for some time. She
was too well satisfied with herself to be easily
jealous of Mabel's good looks or graceful
manner, and the latter was too insignificant a
member of the company as yet to call forth
anything like professional jealousy. "Miss M.
A. Bell's" histrionic efforts had so*far been
confined to very small parts of a few lines; and
in these—though terribly nervous on the occasion
of first having to speak on the stage—she
had acquitted herself in so satisfactory a manner
as to give promise of better things. Her first
success, however, was achieved in the character
of that melodramatic confidante whose high-
flown speeches she had declared she should be
ashamed to utter. When she came to "My
lord, I quail not at your threats," &c., and
defied Mr. Copestake as the wicked tyrant, she
was worked up to such a pitch of desperation
by the combined feelings of nervousness, a
struggling sense of absurdity, and a strong
desire to produce something of the effect which
her aunt (who was watching anxiously at the
wing) had told her might be, and ought to be