aracter.

Nannie Ray, herself still very new to the delights of theatre-going,
had recently seen a great actress play Lady Macbeth, and, fired with
the spirit of emulation, she had been enacting the sleep-walking scene
for the benefit of her country neighbour. Miss Becky Crawlin lived
only half a mile down the road from the old Ray homestead, where the
family were in the habit of spending six months of the year. She and
Nannie had always been great cronies, Miss Becky finding a perennial
delight in "that child's goin's on."

The "child" meanwhile had come to be sixteen years old, but no one
would have given her credit for such dignity who had seen the
incongruous little figure perched upon the slippery haircloth sofa,
twinkling with delight at Miss Becky's encomiums. She wore a
voluminous nightgown, from under the hem of which a pink gingham
ruffle insisted upon poking itself out; her long black hair hung over
her shoulders in sufficiently tragic strands; her cheeks, liberally
powdered with flour, gleamed treacherously pink through a chance
break in their highly artificial pallor, while portentous brows of
burnt cork did their best to make terrible a pair of very girlish and
innocent eyes. A touch of realism which the original Lady Macbeth
lacked was given by a streak of red crayon which lent a murderous
significance to the small brown hand.

"I declare!" her admiring auditor went on, stitching away to make up
for lost time, "I can't see but you do's well's the lady I saw--only
she was dressed prettier, and went round with a wreath on her head. A
wreath's always so becomin'! We used to wear 'em May Day, when I was a
girl. They was made o' paper flowers, all colours, so's you could suit
your complexion, and when it didn't rain I must say we looked reel
nice. 'Twas surprisin', though, how quick a few drops o' rain would
wilt one o' them paper wreaths right down so's you could scurcely tell
what 'twas meant for."

"Tell me some more about the girl with the wreath, Miss Becky," said
Lady Macbeth, longing to curl herself up in a corner, but too mindful
of her tragic dignity to unbend.

"Well, she looked reel pretty, but she didn't hev _sperit_ enough to
suit my idees. She was kind o' lackadaisical and namby-pamby, 'n' when
her young man sarsed her she didn't seem to hev nothin' to say for
herself. I must say 'twas a heathenish kind of a play anyway, 'n' I
ain't surprised that Uncle 'Bijah got sot agin it. The language