indifferent whenever she left the
stage. The passion of Romeo, the philosophy of the Friar, the quaint
garrulousness of the Nurse, the trenchant wit of Mercutio were alike
without charm for him.

But though thus lost in the fortunes and sorrows of the heroine of the
play, the dramatic illusion was far from complete for him. It was not
Juliet,--it was Zelma, the wild, misguided, lost, but still beloved
child of his poor brother; and in his bewildered brain her sad story was
strangely complicated with that of the hapless girl of Verona. When she
swallowed the sleeping-draught, he shrank and shuddered at the horrible
pictures conjured up by her frenzied fancy; and in the last woful scene,
he forgot himself, the play, the audience, everything but her, the
forlorn gypsy child, the shy and lonely little girl whom long years ago
he had taken on his knee, and smoothed down her tangled black hair, as
he might have smoothed the plumage of an eaglet, struggling and
palpitating under his hand, and glancing up sideways, with fierce and
frightened eyes,--and now, when he saw her about to plunge the cruel
blade into her breast, he leaped to his feet and electrified the house
by calling out, in a tone of agonized entreaty,--"Don't, Zelle! for
God's sake, don't! Leave this, and come home with us,--home to the
Grange!"

It was a great proof of Mrs. Bury's presence of mind and command over
her emotions, that she was not visibly discomposed by this strange and
touching appeal, or by the laughter and applause it called forth, but
finished her sad part, and was Juliet to the last.

When, obeying the stormy summons of the audience, the lovers arose from
the dead, and glided ghost-like before the curtain, Zelma, really pale
with the passion and woe of her part, glanced eagerly at the box in
which she had beheld her friends;--it was empty. The worthy Squire,
overcome with confusion at the exposure he had made of his weakness and
simplicity, had hurried from the theatre, willingly accompanied by his
daughter and Sir Harry.

On the following day, sweet Bessie Burleigh, with the consent, at the
request even, of her father, sought out her famous cousin, bearing terms
of reconciliation and proffers of renewed affection.

The actress was alone. She had just risen from her late breakfast, and
was in a morning costume,--careless, but not untidy. She looked languid
and jaded; the beautiful light of young love, which the night before had
shone with