It is probable that Nina—she was fair, tall,
and blue-eyed, with a carriage like that of a
princess, and a will of her own to match—
would have become Mrs. Swete, and lived
and died the wife of a country rector, had it
not been for a circumstance no less trifling
than that of an acting charade.

It was winter; and, at the hall where the
old squire, who was king at Brentfell, lived,
a large party had assembled, among whom
were the Hothams. Private theatricals
were a novelty in that part of the country,
and such acting even as the guests
attempted—which partook more of the nature
of tableaux vivants than anything else—
aroused immense enthusiasm in the locality,
and attracted more spectators than the
double drawing-room could easily hold.
Nina Hotham, magnificently attired, and
imitating the silence as well as the attitude
of some sublime statue, made a profound
impression. Accustomed from her youth to
a country life, and knowing nothing of the
world in these volumes of the unreal, mis-
called of the imagination, the poor girl
became intoxicated with this partial and
unreasoning applause. In it, her fancy caught
the herald notes of a burst of triumphant
acclaim, which was to sweep perhaps, one day,
through the length and breadth of England;
of Europe; of the world. The calling of the
actress, she had often thought, was a
something little less than divine, and now she had
the exquisite pleasure of persuading herself,
and of being persuaded, that that high privilege
was her own by natural right. Vain,
indulged, and accustomed to no other influence
than that of her own impulses, this
young gentlewoman—brought up in affluence,
and imbued with the usual social prejudices—
nevertheless found herself stage-struck.

The Reverend Applepy Swete had not
hailed very eagerly the appearance of his
intended as Rowena, the Saxon Princess, in a
charade; but when he discovered that, in
consequence of the success of that Mystery,
it had been determined that the last scene
of the play of Othello was to be represented,
the part of Desdemona by Miss Nina Hotham,
the young curate looked almost as black as
the Moor himself.

"I do trust, Nina," he urged, with
suppressed feeling, "that you will think again
of this."

"I mean to do so," replied the girl, who
was annoyed that the only eyes which had
not beamed admiration, the only hands which
had not spoken approval, on the evening of
her recent triumph, were those of Mr.
Applepy Swete; "the part requires
considerable thought, sir."

"Nina," he said earnestly, "do not answer
me thus. You and I, as I hope and trust
with all my heart, are, at no very distant
period, to be one, as man and wife. Our
interests, our sympathies, our actions, are to
be similar and united. If I suffered you to
take this highly imprudent and unbecoming
step (I cannot apply a term less strong to
your acting in such a scene with such a man
as Colonel Chowler) without reproof, you
might, in after life, reasonably reproach me
for an unwonted harshness; since, as your
husband, I should not surely—"

"Silence, sir," interrupted the embryo
tragédienne, imperiously, "you are going too
fast. I thank you for the warning you have
given me of what I am to expect as your
wife. You have not a good temper. 'This
bloody passion'—that's what I have to say to
the Colonel—'shakes your very frame. These
are portents. Have mercy upon me. Kill
me to-morrow, let me live to-day.' Most
reverend signor, you are very terrible!"

"If you do act that scene," cried the
curate solemnly, and certainly in a rage, "you
and I, Miss Hotham, never speak of love
again."

That five minutes of irritating conversation
probably altered the whole tenor of a couple
of human lives. The lady persevered in her
determination to play Desdemona, and the
young clergyman, upon his part, kept his
word.

If the charade was a Success, the play was
a tremendous Hit indeed. The gallant colonel
handled the sofa cushion as if he had,
all his life, done nothing else but smother
people with that implement; and, as for
Desdemona, she, according to universal
testimony, was well nigh faultless: her skin
looked whiter than snow, and smoother than
the monumental alabaster; while her tones
—except upon one occasion when she got the
tassel of the cushion into her mouth—were
Desdemona's own. When she desired to be
commended to her kind lord, and died
forgiving him so sweetly, with an "O, farewell,"
upon her closing lips, there was not one dry
eye in the double drawing-room.

This second triumph put an end to what
few prudent reflections yet remained to Nina
with regard to her becoming an actress.
Her admiring brother protested, from the
bottom of his heart, that she was the most
perfect Desdemona that ever played, and
that she would make her fortune in a
fortnight, if she were only to go upon the
stage.

"I am glad to hear you say so much, my
dearest Cecil," was the girl's delighted
answer. "I feel the power within me. It
has been slumbering long indeed; but now
is all the stronger for its rest. I have made
up my mind, dear brother, to become an
actress—to immortalise myself—aye," she
added, in her deepest notes; but not until
after a little pause, "and you, also, Cecil."

Cecil Hotham shuddered. He had the
most unbounded faith in his sister's powers;
but all his instincts rallied round his preconceived
opinions of the stage, in arms against
this scheme. He knew his sister well enough
to feel that it was something more than an