LL NEVER SWEETEN THIS LITTLE HAND!"

Well, she is gone, like the brief three hours when we hung on her every
breath, as if it could stay even the wheels of time. But they have
whirled on--whirled her away with them into the infinite, and into
earthly oblivion! People tell me that a new generation only smiles at
the traditional glory of Sarah Siddons. They never saw her. For me, I
shall go down to the grave worshipping her still.

Of him whom I call Mr. Charles I have little to say. John and I both
smiled when we saw his fine, frank face and manly bearing subdued into
that poor, whining, sentimental craven, the stage Macbeth. Yet I
believe he acted it well. But we irresistibly associated his idea with
that of turnip munching and hay-cart oratory. And when, during the
first colloquy of Banquo with the witches, Macbeth took the opportunity
of winking privately at us over the foot-lights, all the paraphernalia
of the stage failed to make the murderous Thane of Cawdor aught else
than our humorous and good-natured Mr. Charles. I never saw him after
that night. He is still living--may his old age have been as peaceful
as his youth was kind and gay!

The play ended. There was some buffoonery still to come, but we would
not stay for that. We staggered, half-blind and dazzled, both in eyes
and brain, out into the dark streets, John almost carrying me. Then we
paused, and leaning against a post which was surmounted by one of the
half-dozen oil lamps which illumined the town, tried to regain our
mental equilibrium.

John was the first to do it. Passing his hand over his brow he bared
it to the fresh night-air, and drew a deep, hard breath. He was very
pale, I saw.

"John?"

He turned, and laid a hand on my shoulder. "What did you say? Are you
cold?"

"No." He put his arm so as to shield the wind from me, nevertheless.

"Well," said he, after a pause, "we have had our pleasure, and it is
over. Now we must go back to the old ways again. I wonder what
o'clock it is?"

He was answered by a church clock striking, heard clearly over the
silent town. I counted the strokes--ELEVEN!

Horrified, we looked at one another by the light of the lamp. Until
this minute we had taken no note of time. Eleven o'clock! How should
we get home to Norton Bury that night?

For, now the excitement was over, I turned sick and faint; my limbs
almost sank under me.

"What must we do, John?"

"Do! oh! 'tis quite easy.