Punctually at twelve Miss Claribel made her appearance, plainly dressed, modest in her demeanour, and low-toned in the voice. There was very little in her present style to recal the feasting lady of the night before. There was still great beauty in her face, and great elegance in her motion, but they had no resemblance to stage features or stage attitudes. My mother received her very kindly. "Your acquaintance with the interior workings of a theatre," she said, "will be of great use to my son, if you will be kind enough to give him the results of your experience." "My experience is very small, except in so far as the actors in a theatre are concerned. With authors we have never had anything to do, except on this occasion." "How?--not with authors?" I broke in. "Then how do you get possession of new plays?" "Steal them," replied Miss Claribel quietly. "I told you we keep a translator--a remarkably clever man while he is sober; and we owe everything to the French and Germans." "But when a new play is offered to the management?" "The management laughs, and puts in a few advertisements in the papers about the encouragement to native talent; gets a little money, if it can, from the vanity of the aspirant, and ends with a fresh version from Scribe or Kotzebue." "Charles, my dear," said my mother, "I wish we had known Miss Claribel some days ago." "But still, Miss Claribel," I said, "there must be some exceptions at the Stepney Star, for Mr Montalban told me his principle was novelty and home manufacture. He did not profess the Shakspearian drama, but laid himself out for the poets of the present day." "He has an original pantomime at Christmas-time every year, and no other poets are ever engaged in our service; but, perhaps, the merit of Hengist may open the eyes even of Mr Montalban. Will you let me judge of it for myself?" I gave her the copy I had promised. "There was another thing you talked of last night," I added. "You have not forgotten your promise about Ophelia?" In a moment she took off her bonnet, slung it across her arm in the manner of a basket, let loose her hair, which fell in wavy ringlets down to the middle of her back, assumed a wandering expression in the eyes, but still retained intellect enough in their look to give full effect to the pathos, and began, "There's rosemary--that's for remembrance; pray you, love, remember; and there is pansies--that's for thoughts." And it was not many minutes before my mother was in tears. I was a great deal too manly to follow her example, but I felt a choaking at the throat which was very uncomfortable. "Is it possible," I inquired, "that you have never had the opportunity of showing your delightful talents on the stage?"