it by the ignorant prejudices of country-bred folk, who looked on the theatre as a device of the Arch-Enemy and an avenue to his halls of darkness. In pious varyings from church she had heard the Eeverend Paul Screed compare the theatrical pit with that other pit of which the Enemy holds perpetual lease, but she respected Christopher’s opinion more highly than that of the Eeverend Paul. There was yet a sense of wickedness in the thought which assailed her, and her heart beat violently as she ascended the steps which led to Mrs. Lochleven Cameron’s door. She dried her eyes, summoned her resolution, and rang the bell. A pale-faced lady of stately carriage opened the door. ‘I wish,’ said little Barbara, with a beating heart, ‘to see Mrs. Cameron.’ ‘Pray enter,’ returned the lady in tones so deep that she might have been a gentleman in disguise. Barbara entered, and the deep-voiced lady closed the door, and led the way into a scantily furnished parlour, which held, amongst other objects, a rickety-looking grand piano of ancient make. ‘Be seated,’ said the deep-voiced lady. ‘I am Mrs. Lochleven Cameron. What are your wishes?’ There was just a suspicion of Dublin in Mrs. Cameron’s rich and rolling tones. ‘You prepare pupils for the stage?’ said Barbara. Her own clear and sweet voice sounded strange to her, as though it belonged to somebody else, but she spoke with outward calm. ‘Do you wish to take lessons?’ asked the lady. ‘If I can afford to pay your terms,’ said little Barbara. ‘What can you do?’ asked Mrs. Cameron with stage solemnity. ‘Have you had any practice? Can you sing?’ ‘I do not know what I can do,’ said Barbara. ‘I can sing a little.’ ‘Let me hear you,’ said the deep voice; and the lady, with a regal gesture, threw open the grand piano. Barbara drew off her thread gloves and lifted her veil, and then, sitting down to the piano, sang the piteous ballad of the Four Marys. Barbara knew nothing of the easy emotions of people of the stage, and she was almost frightened when, looking up timidly at the conclusion of the song, she saw that Mrs. Cameron was crying. ‘Wait here a time, my dear,’ said Mrs. Lochleven Cameron, regally business-like in spite of her tears, but with the suggestion of Dublin a trifle more developed in her voice. She swept from the room, and closed the door behind her; and Barbara, not yet rid of the feeling that she was somebody else, heard Mrs. Cameron’s voice, somewhat subdued, calling ‘Joe.’ ‘What is it?’ asked another deep voice, wherein the influences of Dublin and the stage together struggled.