excitement, her whole figure quivering with emotion, her eyes still glistening with the light that never shone on sea or shore. By the side of the public hall was a small committee-room, into which our heroine was led, having previously effected a change in her dress and put on her bonnet. ‘How far is it to the railway-station?’ she asked of the committee who had managed the undertaking, and who, as the model men of the town, embalmed or embodied in themselves all those superior virtues which we invariably associate with respectability and wealth, as they stood in a semicircle round her chair, timidly and admiringly—timidly, for they were all respectable married men and had characters to lose; admiringly, because for two hours the actress, by her magic art, had opened up to them something greater and grander than even the busy life of Sloville town itself. ‘How far is it to the railway-station?’ repeated the Mayor, with an anxious and troubled visage, as if such a question had never been put to him before. ‘A carriage will take you there in less than ten minutes,’ said the Town Clerk, rushing, as he was bound to do, to the relief of the august head of the Corporation. ‘My mare will take you there in five minutes,’ said the old church Vicar, not willing to hide his light under a bushel, and at the same time glad to say a good word for the animal in question. His reverence, it is to be feared, was not much of a theologian, but there were two things which everyone admitted he did understand, and they were—horses and wine. ‘My brougham is quite at your service,’ said the Mayor, who was of the party, and who began to fear that unless he asserted himself he would be left out in the cold altogether. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, but I’d rather walk,’ said the actress. She had passed her childhood in that town, and she was anxious to see what alterations had been made by Time’s effacing fingers since she had last looked wistfully at its shop-windows, or with girlish glee had walked its streets. ‘Walk!’ all exclaimed, in a tone which intimated not a little surprise at the absurdity of the idea. ‘Yes,’ repeated the lady calmly, ‘I’d rather walk. Why shouldn’t I? there is plenty of time, and the weather is beautiful. I really should enjoy it.’ ‘Well, madam,’ said the Mayor, ‘if you insist upon it, of course we cannot be so rude as to prevent it. I think I may also say, on behalf of the Corpo—I beg pardon, on behalf of the committee, that if you do walk we shall all be delighted to accompany you to the railway-station.’ ‘And so say all of us,’ said the Town Clerk, blushing as soon as he finished, fearing that the levity of his speech might not be acceptable to the Vicar. He was, however, delighted to find his remark received with universal assent. ‘You’re very kind,’ said the lady; ‘I am sorry to give you so much trouble.’ ‘No trouble at all, madam,’ was, of course, the polite reply of the whole party.