face, its haughty characteristics strengthened, the lips a
little more sensual, a little coarser; still the same stamp of
intellect upon the forehead, the same impatient scorn and misery in her
eyes. She asked no one's pity, but not many women breathed at that
moment who knew more of suffering.

For three weeks she had belonged to a company on tour in the northern
counties. In accordance with the modern custom--so beneficial to actors
and the public--their repertory consisted of one play, the famous
melodrama, 'A Secret of the Thames,' recommended to provincial
audiences by its run of four hundred and thirty-seven nights at a
London theatre. These, to be sure, were not the London actors, but
advertisements in local newspapers gave it to be understood that they
'made an _ensemble_ in no respect inferior to that which was so long
the delight of the metropolis.' Starred on the placards was the name of
Mr. Samuel Peel, renowned in the North of England; his was the company,
and his the main glory in the piece. As leading lady he had the
distinguished Miss Erminia Walcott; her part was a trying one, for she
had to be half-strangled by ruffians and flung--most decorously--over
the parapet of London Bridge. In the long list of subordinate
performers occurred two names with which we are familiar, Miss Grace
Danver and Miss Clara Vale. The present evening would be the third and
last in a certain town of Lancashire, one of those remarkable centres
of industry which pollute heaven and earth, and on that account are
spoken of with somewhat more of pride than stirred the Athenian when he
named his Acropolis.

Clara had just risen to stir the fire, compelled to move by the smoke
that was annoying her, when, after a tap at the door, there came in a
young woman of about five-and-twenty, in a plain walking costume, tall,
very slender, pretty, but looking ill. At this moment there was a
slight flush on her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes which obviously
came of some excitement. She paused just after entering and said in an
eager voice, which had a touch of huskiness:

'What do you think? Miss Walcott's taken her hook!'

Clara did not allow herself to be moved at this announcement. For
several days what is called unpleasantness had existed between the
leading lady and the manager: in other words, they had been quarrelling
violently on certain professional matters, and Miss Walcott had
threatened to ruin the tour by withdrawing her