“I am just coming to that,” answered Miss Willoughby, with dignity. “My poor husband, not having anything to leave me except a complimentary benefit, which the manager of the theatre allowed me on account of my bereavement, I was obliged, of course, to continue in the profession; and oh, sir! nobody that hasn’t gone through it can tell the pain of having to change your widow’s weeds for white muslin and spangles, and put away your baby from your breast to go and slap cheesemongers’ shops into furnished lodgings with a harlequin’s wand. As soon as I got over the dreadful kind of numbness that came upon me in the first of my troubles, I looked out for some one who would take care of the child; for I need not tell you that you can’t leave an infant-in-arms in unfurnished lodgings _without_ attendance, when you get black looks from your landlady if you so much as ask for your fire to be poked once in an evening in a friendly way, and much less to look after a child, which is apt to be trying to the best of tempers. Well, sir, inquiring of one and another, I heard of a very respectable elderly person who had seen better days--and it does seem odd, but people connected with bringing up children by hand always have seen better days. The elderly person lived down Chelsea way, close to the water, which was considered healthy, and next door but one to a cowkeeper--also considered healthy, especially if predisposed to consumption.” “If you would only----” murmured Francis, despondently. “Which I am just coming to,” answered the _ci-devant_ columbine, again with dignity. “The long and short of it is, I took my baby to the respectable elderly person at Chelsea, and there he’s been ever since, at seven shillings a week, which is a hard struggle sometimes now, though light enough when I was engaged as columbine; but dancing has made such progress, and unless you can take flying leaps from one side of the stage to the other, a manager won’t look at you.” “But with regard to----”