produced, that she uttered the speech vith a
kind of breathless vehemence, that was quite
thrilling. And when at its conclusion she burst
into a storm of real tears, and rushed off the
stage, her exit was followed by a round of very
hearty and genuine applause.

"Bravo, Miss Bell!" exclaimed Mr. Harcourt
Howard, the walking gentleman, as Mabel
came off at the front entrance, where he was
standing. "Bravo! You've waked 'em up, by
Jove. I shall begin to think you're not such a
novice as you say, after all, if you go on in
this way."

"Pooh!" snapped out old Jerry Shaw, as
soon as Mr Howard had turned away. "Trash.
Nonsense. Novice? Of course. The child
was frightened, and lost her head. Forgot to
be Miss M. A. Bell for two minutes. That's
the secret. Balderdash!"

Mabel could not help laughing in the midst of
her excitement. "Indeed, that's true, Mr.
Shaw," said she, wiping her eyes. "There
isn't a bit of credit due to me, I'm sure. I was
inspired by despair."

"Don't I know it? Of course. And, look you,
though that was very well for once, it won't
do to give way to it. If you want to do
anything as an actress, you must learn to
calculate your effects beforehand. 'Si vis me
flere' ah, you don't understand Latin, do ye?
No more do I. I did once. But that's long ago.
I put it away with—with a good many other
things one fine morning. And if you like to call
me a confounded idiot for my pains, ye're
welcome. However, what I was going to say is
this: it's all very well to say that to make me
weep you must first grieve, and it's true, partly.
But you mustn't let your emotions run away
with you on the stage. Keep 'em well in hand.
Make them caper and curvet and bring the
people's hearts in their mouths, as the circus-
riders do, when they make their beast rare and
plunge with a sly touch of the knee or twitch of
the bridle, and they sitting safe and steady
all the while as if they were in a rocking-chair."

"Thank you, Mr. Shaw."

"Tush! Thank me? Ye're laughing at me in
in your sleeve for a prosing old fool, I'll go bail."

"I beg your pardon, Mr Shaw," returned Mabel,
drawing herself up, and looking full at him.
"You are quite mistaken. I was listening to
what you said with attention, and was grateful
for your hint, as I hope I shall always be for any
well-meant advice from an experienced artist."

The old man looked at her doubtfully for an
instant, and then, by a sudden impulse, he lifted
the grotesque stage bonnet he wore from his
head, with a gesture that seemed to reveal in one
moment a history of long-forgotten days, so full
was it of high-bred old-fashioned courtesy.

"I believe you," said he, "and I sincerely
crave your pardon."

From that time forward, Mr. Shaw—influenced,
according to his own account, by Lingo's
mature and explicitly conveyed opinion—
seemed to attach himself to Mabel in a way
in which he had never been known to behave to
any human being within the memory of his stage
comrades. Not that he was gentle or even
civil in his speech to her; but he watched her
progress, in every part that was entrusted to
her to play, with unwearied attention. He would
even sometimes enter into long discussions
on the dramatic art. Putting forth quaint, queer
theories of his own; and displaying an
unexpected amount of reading. For he would
quote long passages, not only from
Shakespeare, but from the earlier dramatists
for Mabel's edification. And the contrast was
very singular between the old man's evident
appreciation of their beauty, and his utter
inability to embody his own conception by
voice or gesture; jerking out pathetic and
impassioned speeches alike, with the same
hard cracked voice and stifled brogue.

Amongst these people, and in these surroundings,
Mabel worked out the first elements of her
new profession. Attentive, indefatigable, docile
to instruction—for Mabel's pride was in no way
allied to vain presumption or over-weening self-
conceit—the girl strove and studied to master
the mechanical details of her business, without
full command of which no player can achieve
eminence.

"Your voice, and your face, and your figure
are the tools you have to work with," said Jerry
Shaw one day to her; "and you can't carve out
your own ideas unless you've first learnt to
handle your tools properly."

Out of the theatre Mrs Walton and her family
held little communication with the rest of the
company. Indeed, social intercourse of any
kind was nearly impossible in the press of
constant occupation that took up Mabel's and
her aunt's time. Jack, whose employment within
the theatre was by no means so unremitting,
took long solitary rambles, with a satchel,
containing his colour-box and sketch-book, slung
over his shoulders, and returned in the light
summer evenings with a collection of charming
studies from the rich banks of the Clare, and all
the surrounding country, nearly as far as
Ballyhacket in one direction, and the sea in another.

The only members of Mr. Moffatt's troupe who
had access to Mrs. Walton's home were the
Trescotts. Little Corda had become a devout
worshipper of Mabel. In Corda's opinion there
was no one so good or so beautiful or so clever,
and the child was never weary of singing her
praises.

Little as Mrs Walton liked her father and
brother, she yet could not bear to show any
coldness to the gentle motherless little girl, to
whom she felt that the society and example of
Mabel were useful and valuable. Mr Trescott,
besides being leader and director of the small
orchestra, was employed to arrange whatever
incidental music might be needed, and to copy
out the band parts. In this latter branch of his
business Miss Moffatt gave him frequent
employment, for she was wont to introduce all
the new and popular songs of the day that she
could find, into her parts, "lugging them in," as
Mr Harcourt Howard said, "by the head and