Sh-h-h-h came in a loud murmur from the audience, the curtain having risen, which Effingham recognizes, and ejaculates: “How ridiculous, here in the theater.” Upon which his eye suddenly fell upon one of the actresses, and he almost uttered an exclamation. It was the unknown lady of the wood. The novelist continues: The unknown lady was no gentle Virginia maiden, no “lady,” as she had said with perfect calmness at their meeting--only one of the company of comedians. Her singular expression when she uttered the words, “I think you will see me again,” occurred to the young man, and he wondered that this easy solution of the riddle had not occurred to him at once. “What was her name?” Mr. Effingham drew forth his bill and saw opposite the name of _Portia_, Miss Beatrice Hallam. “Ah, yes,” he said, carelessly, “the same we were speculating upon this morning. Let us see how _Portia_ looks, and what change the footlights work in her face.” He sat down in the corner of the stage upon a wicker chair and scanned _Portia_ critically. Her costume was faultless. It consisted of a gown and underskirt of fawn-colored silk trimmed with silver, and a single band of gold encircled each wrist, clearly relieved against the white, finely-rounded arm. Her hair, which was a beautiful chestnut, had been carried back from the temples and powdered after the fashion of the time, and around her beautiful, swan-like neck the young woman wore a necklace of pearls of rare brilliancy. Thus the costume of the character defied criticism, and Mr. Effingham passed on to the face and figure. These we have already described. The countenance of Beatrice Hallam wore the same simple, yet firm and collected expression, which Mr. Effingham had observed in their first interview, and her figure had the same indefinable grace and beauty. Every movement which she made might have suited a royal palace, and in her large, brilliant eyes Mr. Effingham sought the least trace of confusion. She surveyed the audience, whilst the _Prince of Morocco_ was uttering his speech, with perfect simplicity, but her eyes not for a single moment rested on the young men collected at the corner of the stage. For her they seemed to have no existence, and she turned to the _Prince_ again. That gentleman having uttered his prescribed number of lines, _Portia_ advanced graciously towards him and addressed him. Her carelessness was gone. She no longer betrayed either indifference or coldness; she was the actress, with her rôle to sustain. She commenced in a voice of noble and queen-like courtesy, a voice of pure music and clear utterance, so to speak, such as few lips possess the power of giving forth. Every word rang and told; there was no hurry, no slurring, no hesitation. It was not an actress delivering a set speech, but the noble _Portia_, doing the honors of her beautiful palace at Belmont. The scene ended with great applause--the