wn his face. Could the merciful heavens see
such grief, and let the wicked triumph? And why was there no man to
succor her? Surely some times arise in which the old law is the good
law, and a man will trust to his own right arm to put things straight
in the world? To look at her!--could any man refuse? And now she rises
and goes away, and all the glad summer-time and the sunshine have gone,
and the cold wind shivers through the trees, and it breathes only of
farewell. Farewell, O miserable one! the way is dark before you, and you
are alone. Alone, and no man near to help.

Macleod was awakened from his trance. The act drop was let down; there
was a stir throughout the theatre; young Ogilvie turned to him,--

"Don't you see who has come into that corner box up there?"

If he had told that Miss White, just come up from Prince's Gate, in her
plain black dress and blue beads, had just arrived and was seated there,
he would scarcely have been surprised. As it was, he looked up and saw
Colonel Ross taking his seat, while the figure of a lady was partially
visible behind the lace curtain.

"I wonder how often Mrs. Ross has seen this piece?" Ogilvie said. "And I
think Colonel Ross is as profound a believer in Miss White as his wife
is. Will you go up and see them now?"

"No," Macleod said, absently.

"I shall tell them," said the facetious boy as he rose and got hold of
his crush hat, "that you are meditating a leap on to the stage to rescue
the distressed damsel."

And then his conscience smote him.

"Mind you," said he, "I think it is awfully good myself. I can't pump up
any enthusiasm for most things that people rave about, but I do think
this girl is uncommonly clever. And then she always dresses like a
lady."

With this high commendation, Lieutenant Ogilvie left, and made his way
upstairs to Mrs. Ross's box. Apparently he was well received there, for
he did not make his appearance again at the beginning of the next act,
nor, indeed, until it was nearly over.

The dream-world opens again; and now it is a beautiful garden, close by
the ruins of an old abbey, and fine ladies are walking about there. But
what does he care for these marionettes uttering meaningless phrases?
They have no more interest for him than the sham ruins, so long as that
one bright, speaking, pathetic face is absent; and the story they are
carrying forward is for him no story at all, for he takes no heed of its
details in his anxious watching