ysm of emotion and
made her tear the newspaper in twain.

CHAPTER XXII

"MOLL'S SINGIN' BROUGHT HER LUCK AND MAY BE YOURS WILL TOO"

The months went over. Huddy's "travelling" theatrical troupe had been
paying a round of visits to various towns in the home counties,
performing in innyards, barns, any place suitable for the purpose and
where no objections were raised by the justices. Actors and actresses
were "rogues and vagabonds" when it suited prim puritans to call them
so, and more than once Huddy and his company had to take a hurried
departure from some town where play-acting was looked upon as ungodly
and a device of Satan to ensnare the unsuspecting.

All this was in the day's work. Lavinia thought nothing of it. She had
been in her youthful days harried from pillar to post and knew what it
meant. The important thing to her was that she was getting a vast amount
of stage experience, and as she was a quick "study" she had no
difficulty in taking on a new role at a day's notice.

Lavinia remained with Huddy's until she had all the devices of the stage
at her finger's ends. In a way theatrical training was easier then than
now. Acting was largely a question of tradition. What Betterton, Wilks,
Barton Booth, Mrs. Bracegirdle, Mrs. Barry, Mrs. Oldfield did others had
to do. Audiences expected certain characters to be represented in a
certain way and were slow to accept "new readings." Comedy, however, had
more latitude than tragedy, and as comedy was Lavinia's line her winsome
face and pleasing smile and her melodious voice were always welcome, and
when she had a "singing" part she brought down the house.

Of course the life was hard--especially when the share of the receipts
which fell to the minor members was small--but it was full of variety
and sometimes of excitement. If the work did not entirely drive away the
remembrance of Lancelot Vane it enabled her to look upon the romance of
her early maidenhood with equanimity. Her love affair had become a
regret tinged with a pleasureable sadness.

She was beginning to be known in the profession. Now and again she wrote
to her old friend Gay and he replied with encouraging letters. His opera
was finished, he told her, Colley Cibber had refused to have anything
to do with it and it was now in the hands of John Rich.

"I can see thee, my dear, in Polly Peachum. I've had you in mind in the
songs. You're doing well, I hear, but I'd have you do better. The
duc