and a sound like a sob escaped from him. Meanwhile the hooting and hissing and the cruel cries for "Author! Author!" continued. "Oh!" sighed Aunt Leth, "how dreadful! how dreadful! I shall never have courage to come to another first night." She was on the verge of tears herself, as though it was one very dear to her who was being damned. In a little while the audience waxed into fury. "Author! Author! Author!" rang through the house; and there were malicious ones among the auditors who enjoyed the fun. Five minutes, six minutes, seven minutes passed in this way. And still the poor author paced the stage, in and out the wings. "Go on," said the manager to him, "or they'll tear up the benches!" Linton did not answer. The cries redoubled in fierceness. "Author! Author! Author! Hoo-oo-oo! Hoo-oo-oo! Author! Author!" "Damn you!" cried the manager to Linton; "go on like a man, can't you, and get it over! It will cost me another hundred pounds if you don't!" The noise now really began to assume the preliminary features of a riot; the malcontents were not only angry, they were enraged. "How will it end? How will it end?" sighed Aunt Leth, clasping her hands. "He ought to come on," observed Fred Cornwall, gravely. Suddenly the green curtain was shaken, drawn aside, and Linton stepped in front. He made but two steps forward, and was greeted with volleys of hisses and derisive laughter. He was about to retire, when, swayed by an uncontrollable impulse, he altered his intention, and, advancing swiftly into the centre of the stage, stood before the audience, and held up his trembling hands. "What is he going to do now?" said the manager, watching him from the side. "He has his gruelling; why don't he come off?" Linton's unexpected movement produced an instant effect. Every voice was instantly hushed, and the people craned forward to hear what he had to say. Two or three times he essayed to speak, but not a sound issued from him. Then he found his voice and spoke: