The days went by, days that were halcyon under love’s own sunshine. What matter if the mere skies were clouded, the mere material sun shut out, the wind bitter? Love can build a shelter for his votaries, and has a sun-shine of his own. Still let me sing thy praises, gracious Love, though I am entering on the days of fogeydom, and my minstrelsy is something rusty. I remember; I remember. Thou and I have heard the chimes at midnight, melancholy sweet. ‘Barbara,’ said Christopher, one evening, bending his mournful brows above her, ‘we must part.’ ‘Nonsense!’ said Barbara smilingly. ‘There is no hope of doing anything here,’ continued Christopher. ‘I must face the world, and if there is anything in me, I must force the world to see it and to own it. I am going up to London.’ ‘To London?’ asked Barbara, no longer smiling. ‘To London,’ said Christopher, quoting Mrs. Browning; ‘to the gathering-place of souls.’ ‘What shall you do there, Christopher?’ asked Barbara, by this time tremulous. ‘I shall take my compositions with me,’ he answered,’ and offer them to the publishers. I will find out the people who give concerts and get leave to play. I will play at first for nothing: I can but try. If I fail, I fail. But there is nothing here to work upon. There is no knowledge of art and no love for it. I must have more elbow-room.’ Elbow-room is indispensable to a violinist, and Barbara was compelled to agree to her lover’s programme. She was a brave little creature, and though she was as sorry to part with her lover as even he could wish her, she accepted the inevitable. Christopher finished his quarter’s instructions where he had pupils, declined such few further engagements as offered themselves, packed up his belongings in a tin box somewhat too large for them, said farewell, and went his way to London. Barbara went with him by coach into the great neighbouring town five miles away, and saw him off by train. The times and the place where these two were bred were alike primitive, and this farewell journey had no shadow of impropriety in it even for the most censorious eyes. The coach did not return till evening, and little Barbara had three or four hours on her hands. She walked disconsolately from the station, with her veil down to hide the few tears which forced themselves past her resolution. Scarcely noticing whither her feet carried her, she had wandered into a retired and dusty street which bore plainly upon its surface the unwritten but readable announcement of genteel poverty, and there in a parlour window was a largeish placard bearing this legend: ‘Mrs. Lochleven Cameron prepares pupils for the Stage. Enquire Within.’ A sudden inspiration entered Barbara’s heart. She had seen the inside of a theatre once or twice, and she thought herself prettier and knew she could sing better than the singing chambermaid whom everybody had so applauded. Christopher had often defended the stage from the aspersions cast upon