t have given way utterly under the paralyzing spell, had not
some sudden inspiration of genius or love, a prophetic thrill of power,
or a memory of her unwearied babe, come to nerve, to upbear her. She
roused, and went through her part with some flickering flashes of
spirit, and through all her painful embarrassment was stately and
graceful by the regal necessity of her beauty. The event was not
success,--was but a shade better than utter failure; and when, soon
after, that beautiful woman dropped out of London dramatic life, few
were they who missed her enough to ask whither she had gone.

But Zelma, whose sad, searching eyes saw deeper than the eyes of
critics, recognized from the first her grand, long-sought ideal in the
fair unknown, whose name had appeared on the play-bills in small,
deprecating type, under the overwhelming capitals of "MR.
GARRICK"--"_Mrs. Siddons_." She looked upon that frightened and fragile
woman with prophetic reverence and noble admiration: and as she walked
her lonely chamber that night, she said to herself, somewhat sadly, but
not bitterly,--"The true light of the English drama has arisen at last.
'Out, out, brief candle!'"

* * * * *

Season after season, year after year, Zelma continued to play in London,
but never again with the fame, the homage, the flatteries and triumphs
of a great actress. All these she saw at last accorded to her noble
rival. Mrs. Bury had shone very acceptably in a doubtful dramatic
period,--first as an inspired, impassioned enthusiast, and after as a
conscientious artist, subdued and saddened, yet always careful and
earnest; but, like many another lesser light, she was destined to be
lost sight of in the long, splendid day of the Kembles.

Yet once again the spirit of unrest, the nomadic instinct, came back
upon Zelma Bury,--haunted her heart and stirred in her blood till she
could resist no longer, but, joining a company for a provincial tour,
left London.

The health of the actress had been long declining, under the almost
unsuspected attacks of a slow, insidious disease. She was more weak and
ill than she would confess, even to herself; she wanted change, she
said, only change. She never dreamed of rest. Week after week she
travelled,--never tarrying long enough In one place to weary of it,--the
peaceful sights and sounds of rural life tranquillizing and refreshing
her soul, as the clear expanse of its sky, the green of its w