theatre quiver until it seemed quite within the
bounds of possibility that the flooring would
give way, and a pair of corduroy-clad legs be
seen hovering over Lady Popham's floral
headgear! However, no such disaster took place,
and "Jerry the Buck" came to an end in
due course, giving place to an old pathetic
melody with a wailing burden to it in a minor
key. Scarcely had the first few notes of it
been played when the house was hushed into
breathless silence. The air had been arranged
as a violin solo, and the player was Alfred
Trescott. Excited by the consciousness of
performing to cultivated and attentive ears, the
young man threw himself completely into the
spirit of the music. Those exquisitely sympathetic tones, of which the violin alone, amongst
instruments, has the secret, rose through the
theatre with a sweet, sad yearning plaint that
was inexpressibly pathetic. The tune was wild
and irregular, like the sighing of the wind over
some desolate place; and when, at its close, the
last long-drawn note had died away, there was
for a second profound and absolute silence
throughout the house. Then burst forth a
storm of applause, led by Lady Popham herself, who leant over the front of the box daintily
wiping her moistened eyes with a laced
handkerchief, and strenuously beating her fan on
the box-ledge with her other hand. "Bis, bis,
bis!" cried her ladyship's shrill voice. "Make
him play it again, somebody. Mais c'est
charmant. È squisito. I'm perfectly astonished.
Why don't somebody make him play it
again?"

The whole audience having by this time joined
in shouts of "Ankoor! ankoor!" accompanied
by much clapping of hands and stamping of feet,
and encouraging exclamations of "More power
to ye! Give it us again, me boy! Sure it's
yourself that can fiddle, any way, &c.," Alfred
repeated the air, terminating it this time by an
improvised cadenza, with a long-drawn shake at
the end of it, which raised even still greater
enthusiasm.

The applause had scarcely yet subsided, when
the curtain rose upon the platform of the castle
at Elsinore, and the tragedy of Hamlet fairly
commenced. The play progressed smoothly and
successfully. The hero of the night, Mr. Wilfred
J. Percival, was received with all due recognition
of his position as bénéficiaire. The new
Ophelia was greeted on her first entrance with
such unexpected heartiness as to destroy her
self-possession for a time, and the first few words
she had to say were nearly inaudible. But she
soon recovered, and performed the rest of the
scene with grace and sweetness. There was a
stir of expectation throughout the theatre when
Mabel entered for the mad scene, decked with
wild flowers and straw, and with her rich dark
hair falling dishevelled about her shoulders.
On coming to the theatre that evening, she had
found in her dressing-room a large basket full of
natural wild flowers, woven into fantastic
garlands with ivy and creeping plants, and on the
top was laid a scrap of paper, with these words
written in Corda Trescott's round childish
hand:

"Please, please to wear these to-night. Alfred
gathered them this morning, and I have twisted
them together all myself.

"Your affectionate little friend,

"CORDA."

"Very kind and thoughtful, indeed, of young
Trescott," said Aunt Mary; "and how prettily
they are arranged."

"I suppose I can't refuse to wear them,"
said Mabel, musingly.

"Goodness, Mabel! Refuse? Of course
not. Why should you?"

To this question Mabel had made no reply,
and accordingly, when the time came for attiring
her for the mad scenes, Mrs. Walton twined
the wreaths in Mabel's hair, and looped them
on to her white dress, and pronounced the
effect to be quite perfect.

And a very charming and poetical picture of
the distraught Ophelia she presented, as she
stood in the centre of the stage, pouring out the
snatches of song in a voice to which nervousness
lent a touching tremor. The girl's fresh youth
and natural refinement, and the unalloyed simple
earnestness with which she had thrown herself
into the character she was representing, made her
seem the very embodiment of the poet's graceful
fancy; and when she finally left the stage, after
the last pathetic scene with Laertes, there were
few eyes in the house undimmed with tears. In,
brief, the performance was a complete and
unmistakable success.

Lady Popham was in ecstasies. She sent for
Mr. Moffatt to come and speak with her after
the conclusion of the play, and desired he would
convey her best congratulations and thanks to
Miss M. A. Bell, for the delight she had afforded
herself and her friends. "And that charming
creature that played the fiddle!" exclaimed
Lady Popham. "Where did you pick up these
two young artists, Moffatt? I tell you that boy
is a genius; and I know something about the
matter. I must have him out at Cloncoolin.
What's his name? Trescott? Ah, well, I
never remember people's names. Write it down
and send it to me, will you? I shall be obliged
to you. And look here, Moffatt, make that
pretty sweet poetical Ophelia of yours take a
benefit, and I'll promise to come and bring half
the county. Sne is really delicious. You
won't be able to keep her here very long, of
course. You're prepared for that, eh? Well,
make the most of her now, and let me know in
good time about her benefit."

All the party from Cloncoolin followed her
ladyship's cue, and Mr. Moffatt retired amidst a
chorus of "Really charming. Quite delighted.
So pleased. Does you great credit, Moffatt,"
and so forth.

"Well, Mabel, my darling child," said Aunt
Mary, giving her niece a hearty hug and a kiss
when they were all at home once more in the
little sitting-room, "you've surpassed my