rush for the stage, but Nell cried: “Guard the door, Moll; don’t let a rascal out. I’ll do the rest.”

It was not Moll’s strength, however, which kept the greenroom filled, but expectation of Nell. All gathered about with the suspense of a drama; for Nell herself was a whole play as she stood in the centre of that little group of lords and players, dressed for Almahyde, Dryden’s heroine, with a basket of oranges on her dimpled arm. What a pretty picture she was too– prettier here even than on the stage! The nearer, the prettier! A band of roses, one end of which formed a garland falling to the floor, circled and bound in her curls. What a figure in her Oriental garb, hiding and revealing. Indeed, the greenroom seemed bewitched by her cry: “Oranges, will you have my oranges?”

She lifted the basket high and offered the fruit in her enchanting old-time way, a way which had won for her the place of first actress in England. Could it not now dispose of Moll’s wares and make the child happy? Almahyde’s royal train was caught up most unroyally, revealing two dainty ankles; and she laughed and danced and disposed of her wares all in a breath. Listen and love:

There were cries of “Brava!” “Another jig!” and “Hurrah for Nelly!” It was one of those bits of acting behind the scenes which are so rare and exquisite and which the audience never see.

“Marry, gallants, deny me after that, if you dare”; and Nell’s little foot came down firmly in the last step of a triumphant jig, indicating a determination that Moll’s oranges should be sold and quickly too.

“Last act! All ready for the last act,” rang out in Dick’s familiar voice from the stage-door as she ended. It was well some one thought of the play and of the audience in waiting.

Many of the players hastily departed to take up their cues; but not so Nell. Her eyes were upon the lordly Buckingham, who was endeavouring to effect a crafty exit.

“Not so fast, my lord,” she said as she caught his handsome cloak and drew him back into the room. “I want you with me.” She looked coyly into his lordship’s face as though he were the one man in all the world she loved, and her curls and cheek almost nestled against his rich cloak. “A dozen, did you say? What a heart you have, my lord. A bountiful heart!”

Buckingham was dazed; his eyes sought Nell, then looked aghast at the oranges she would force upon him. The impudence of it!

“A dozen!” he exclaimed in awe. “’Slife, Nelly; what would I do with a dozen oranges?”

“Pay for them, in sooth,” promptly replied the vixen. “I never give a lord credit.”

The player-folk gathered closer to watch the scene; for there was evidently more fun brewing, and that too at the expense of a very royal gentleman.

“A player talk of credit!” replied his lordship, quite ironically, as he straightened up proudly for a wit-encounter. “What would become of the mummers, if the lords did not fill their empty pockets?” he said, crushingly.

“What would become of the lords, if the players’ brains did not try to fill their empty skulls with wits?” quickly retorted Nell.

“If you were a man, sweet Nelly, I should answer: ‘The lords first had fools at court; then supplanted them with players!’”

“And, being a woman, I do answer,” replied the irrepressible Nell, “’–and played the fools themselves, my lord!’”

The players tried to smother their feelings; but the retort was too apt, and the greenroom rang with laughter.

Buckingham turned fiercely upon them; but their faces were instantly mummified.

“Gad, I would sooner face the Dutch fleet, Nelly. Up go my hands, fair robber,” he said. He had decided to succumb for the present. In his finger-tips glistened a golden guinea.

Nell eyed the coin dubiously.

“Nay, keep this and your wares too,” added his lordship, in hope of peace, as he placed it in her hand.

“Do you think me a beggar?” replied Nell, indignantly. “Take your possessions, every one–every orange.” She filled his hands and arms to overflowing with her golden wares.

His lordship winced, but stood subdued.

“What am I to do with them?” he asked, falteringly.

“Eat them; eat them,” promptly and forcefully retorted the quondam orange-vender.

“All?” asked his lordship.

“All!” replied her ladyship.

“Damme, I cannot hold a dozen,” he exclaimed, aghast.

“A chair! A chair!” cried Nell. “Would your lordship stand at the feast of gold?”

Before Buckingham had time to reflect upon the outrage to his dignity, Nell forced him into a chair, to the great glee of the by-standers, especially of Manager Hart, who chuckled to an actor by his side: “She’ll pluck his fine feathers; curse his arrogance.”

“Your knees together, my lord! What, have they never united in prayer?” gleefully laughed Nell as she further humbled his lordship by forcing his knees together to form a lap upon which to pile more oranges.

Buckingham did not relish the scene; but he was clever enough to humour the vixen, both from fear of her tongue and from hope of favours as well as words from her rosy lips.

“They’ll unite to hold thee, wench,” he suggested, with a sickly laugh, as he observed his knees well laden with oranges. “I trow not,” retorted Nell; “they can scarce hold their own. There!” and she roguishly capped the pyramid which burdened his lordship’s knees with the largest in her basket.

“I’ll barter these back for my change, sweet Nell,” he pleaded.

“What change?” quickly cried the merry imp of Satan.

“I gave you a golden guinea,” answered his lordship, woefully.

“I gave you a golden dozen, my lord!” replied Nell, gleefully.

“Oranges, who will have my oranges?”

She was done with Buckingham and had turned about for other prey.

Hart could not allow the opportunity to escape without a shot at his hated lordship.

“Fleeced,” he whispered grimly over his lordship’s shoulder, with a merry chuckle.

Buckingham rose angrily.

“A plague on the wench and her dealings,” he said. His oranges rolled far and wide over the floor of the greenroom.

“You should be proud, my lord, to be robbed by so fair a hand,” continued Hart, consolingly. “’Tis an honour, I assure you; we all envy you.”

Buckingham did not relish the consolation.

“’Tis an old saw, Master Hart,” he replied: “‘He laughs best who laughs last.’”

As he spoke, Nell’s orange-cry rang out again above the confusion and the fun. She was still at it. Moll was finding vengeance and money, indeed, though she dwelt upon her accumulating possessions through eyelashes dim with tears.

“It’s near your cue, Mistress Nell,” cried out the watchful Dick at the