pupils, declined such few further engagements as offered themselves, packed up his belongings in a tin box somewhat too large for them, said farewell, and went his way to London. Barbara went with him by coach into the great neighbouring town five miles away, and saw him off by train. The times and the place where these two were bred were alike primitive, and this farewell journey had no shadow of impropriety in it even for the most censorious eyes. The coach did not return till evening, and little Barbara had three or four hours on her hands. She walked disconsolately from the station, with her veil down to hide the few tears which forced themselves past her resolution. Scarcely noticing whither her feet carried her, she had wandered into a retired and dusty street which bore plainly upon its surface the unwritten but readable announcement of genteel poverty, and there in a parlour window was a largeish placard bearing this legend: 'Mrs. Lochleven Cameron prepares pupils for the Stage. Enquire Within.' A sudden inspiration entered Barbara's heart. She had seen the inside of a theatre once or twice, and she thought herself prettier and knew she could sing better than the singing chambermaid whom everybody had so applauded. Christopher had often defended the stage from the aspersions cast upon it by the ignorant prejudices of country-bred folk, who looked on the theatre as a device of the Arch-Enemy and an avenue to his halls of darkness. In pious varyings from church she had heard the Eeverend Paul Screed compare the theatrical pit with that other pit of which the Enemy holds perpetual lease, but she respected Christopher's opinion more highly than that of the Eeverend Paul. There was yet a sense of wickedness in the thought which assailed her, and her heart beat violently as she ascended the steps which led to Mrs. Lochleven Cameron's door. She dried her eyes, summoned her resolution, and rang the bell. A pale-faced lady of stately carriage opened the door.

'I wish,' said little Barbara, with a beating heart, 'to see Mrs. Cameron.'

'Pray enter,' returned the lady in tones so deep that she might have been a gentleman in disguise.

Barbara entered, and the deep-voiced lady closed the door, and led the way into a scantily furnished parlour, which held, amongst other objects, a rickety-looking grand piano of ancient make.

'Be seated,' said the deep-voiced lady. 'I am Mrs. Lochleven Cameron. What are your wishes?'

There was just a suspicion of Dublin in Mrs. Cameron's rich and rolling tones.

'You prepare pupils for the stage?' said Barbara. Her own clear and sweet voice sounded strange to her, as though it belonged to somebody else, but she spoke with outward calm.

'Do you wish to take lessons?' asked the lady.

'If I can afford to pay your terms,' said little Barbara.

'What can you do?' asked Mrs. Cameron with stage solemnity. 'Have you had any practice? Can you sing?'

'I do not know what I can do,' said Barbara. 'I can sing a little.'

'Let me hear you,' said the deep voice; and the lady, with a regal gesture, threw open the grand piano.

Barbara drew off her thread gloves and lifted her veil, and then, sitting down to the piano, sang the piteous ballad of the Four Marys. Barbara knew nothing of the easy emotions of people of the stage, and she was almost frightened when, looking up timidly at the conclusion of the song, she saw that Mrs. Cameron was crying.

'Wait here a time, my dear,' said Mrs. Lochleven Cameron, regally business-like in spite of her tears, but with the suggestion of Dublin a trifle more developed in her voice.

She swept from the room, and closed the door behind her; and Barbara, not yet rid of the feeling that she was somebody else, heard Mrs. Cameron's voice, somewhat subdued, calling 'Joe.'

'What is it?' asked another deep voice, wherein the influences of Dublin and the stage together struggled.

'Come down,' said Mrs. Cameron; and in answer to this summons a solemn footstep was heard upon the stair. Barbara heard the sound of a whispered conference outside, and then, the door being opened, Mrs. Cameron ushered in a gentleman tall and lank and sombre, like Mrs. Cameron, he was very pale, but in his case the pallor of his cheeks was intensified by the blackness of his hair and the purple-black bloom upon his chin and upper lip. He looked to Barbara like an undertaker who mourned the stagnation of trade. To you or me he would have looked like what he was, a second or third-rate tragedian.

'I have not yet the pleasure of your name,' said Mrs. Lochleven Cameron, addressing Barbara.

'My name is Barbara Allen,' said Barbara, speaking it unconsciously as though it were a line of an old ballad.

'This, Miss Allen,' said Mrs. Cameron with a sweep of the right hand which might have served to introduce a landscape, 'is Mr. Lochleven Cameron.'

Barbara rose and curtsied, and Mr. Lochleven Cameron bowed. Barbara concluded that this was not the gentleman who had been called downstairs as 'Joe.'

'Will you' sing that little ballad over again, Miss Allen?' asked Mrs. Cameron, gravely seating herself.

Barbara sang the ballad over again, and sang it rather better than before.

Mrs. Cameron cried again, and Mr. Cameron said 'Bravo!' at the finish.

'Now,' said Mrs. Cameron, 'do you know anything sprightly?' she pronounced it 'sproightly,' but she was off her guard.

Barbara, by this time only enough excited to do her best, sang 'Come lasses and lads,' and sang it like herself, with honest mirth and rural roguishness. For without knowing it, this young lady was a born actress, and did by nature and beautifully what others are taught to do awkwardly.

'You'll have to broaden the style a little for the theatre,' said the tragédienne, 'but for a small room nothing could be better.'

'I venture to predict,' said the tragedian, 'that Miss Allen will become an ornament to the profession.'

'I am afraid,' said Barbara, rising from the piano, 'that after all I may be only wasting your time. I have not asked your terms, and—I am—I have not much money.'

'Miss Allen,' said the tragedian, 'unless I am much mistaken, you will not long have to mourn that unpleasant condition of affairs.'

'Are your parents aware of your design, Miss Allen?' This from the lady.

'I have no parents,' faltered Barbara. 'I am living with my uncle.'

'Does he know your wishes in this matter?'

'No,' said Barbara, and the feeling of guilt returned.

'If he is willing to entrust you to my tuition,' said Mrs. Lochleven Cameron, 'I should be willing to instruct you without charge on condition that you bound yourself to pay to Mr. Cameron one-third of your earnings for the first three years.'

This opened up a vista to Barbara, but she was certain that her uncle would give his consent to no such arrangement.

'You had better lay the matter before your uncle, Miss Allen,' said the tragedian. 'Without his consent, Mrs. Lochleven Cameron could not see her way to an arrangement. She is; aware—as I am—of the undeserved stigma which has been cast upon the profession by bigotry and ignorance. She has no respect for the prejudice—nor have I—but she will not violate the feelings of those who are so unfortunate as to suffer under it.'

'Ye're quite right, Joe,' said Mrs. Cameron colloquially, and then, with added grandeur, to Barbara, 'Mr. Lochleven Cameron expresses me own feelings admirably.'

Barbara made no reply. It would have been sweet to work for Christopher even by so audacious a means as going on the stage. But the vision crumbled when she thought of her uncle. She dropped her veil and drew on her gloves slowly, and as she did so a rapid step ascended to the front door, there came the click of a latch-key, the slam of the street door as it closed, and then, with an imperative knock which awaited no answer, a young man rushed into the room and shouted,

'Done at last!'

There was triumph in this young man's