beg him to love some one more worthy
than herself, and did not wish to appear in the same tableau with him,
feeling that it was much too personal.

When the eventful hour came, yesterday, Willie and I were the only
actors really willing to take lovers' parts, save Jamie and Ralph, who
were but too anxious to play all the characters, whatever their age,
sex, colour, or relations. But the guests knew nothing of these
trivial disagreements, and at ten o'clock last night it would have been
difficult to match Rowardennan Castle for a scene of beauty and revelry.
Everything went merrily till we came to Hynde Horn, the concluding
tableau, and the most effective and elaborate one on the programme.
At the very last moment, when the opening scene was nearly ready, Jean
Dalziel fell down a secret staircase that led from the tapestry chamber
into Lady Ardmore's boudoir, where the rest of us were dressing. It was
a short flight of steps, but as she held a candle, and was carrying her
costume, she fell awkwardly, spraining her wrist and ankle. Finding
that she was not maimed for life, Lady Ardmore turned with comical and
unsympathetic haste to Francesca, so completely do amateur theatricals
dry the milk of kindness in the human breast.

"Put on these clothes at once," she said imperiously, knowing nothing of
the volcanoes beneath the surface. "Hynde Horn is already on the stage,
and somebody must be Jean. Take care of Miss Dalziel, girls, and ring
for more maids. Helene, come and dress Miss Monroe; put on her slippers
while I lace her gown; run and fetch more jewels,--more still,--she can
carry off any number; not any rouge, Helene--she has too much colour
now; pull the frock more off the shoulders--it's a pity to cover an
inch of them; pile her hair higher--here, take my diamond tiara, child;
hurry, Helene, fetch the silver cup and the cake--no, they are on the
stage; take her train, Helene. Miss Hamilton, run and open the doors
ahead of them, please. I won't go down for this tableau. I'll put Miss
Dalziel right, and then I'll slip into the drawing-room, to be ready for
the guests when they come in."

We hurried breathlessly through an interminable series of rooms and
corridors. I gave the signal to Mr. Beresford, who was nervously waiting
for it in the wings, and the curtain went up on Hynde Horn disguised as
the auld beggar man at the king's gate. Mr. Beresford was reading the
ballad, and we took up the tableaux at the point wh