In the afternoon the actors erected the "fit-up," under the supervision of Brown, the baggage-man, while the girls looked on and encouraged their struggles. Evarne, who had only that very morning been able to get the money for her brown costume from Mrs. Punter, had spent it on white butter-muslin for the "vision" gown. She now sat hastily stitching away at the interminable, seams of a flowing, snowy, shroud-like garment, whilst Madame Cheape--sober again--poured into her presumably maiden ear lamentations concerning the woes of married life. By the evening, the whole company was in a state of irritable nervousness and apprehension. They ate what tea they could--and in some cases that implied what they were able to get--and were all gathered in the hall, with ample time not only to dress, but to stand around in knots, conversing in ominous whispers. Archie, the soured, even went so far as to assert that they were all very likely to be lynched by an infuriated public. It was difficult to avoid some feelings of sympathy with poor old Mrs. Punter, as she handed each member of the company a leaf from some species of herb, which she confidently declared would bring them luck. She also made it understood that she was going to celebrate the first night by standing drinks all round, and solemnly wrote down on a slip of paper each individual's fancy in this direction. This did something towards producing a more universally good-natured state of mind, but the reaction was sudden and disgust loud and undisguised, when--after the elaborate ceremony of putting everyone's wishes into writing and duly receiving their thanks--all that did verily make its appearance was one bottle of lemonade--small size! And the performance! A fiasco had been anticipated, but it proved to be even worse than the wildest nightmare had pictured. Evarne really did know her part, and had rehearsed her dying scene with Mont and Jess until they presented it--or so they flattered themselves--in a manner that would cause it to come as a refreshing little oasis in the midst of the evening's confusion. But to rehearse in private and to appear in public are two different matters. Jess repeatedly forgot her words, and would then unblushingly demand in loud, flurried whispers, "What's next, for Heaven's sake?" That was bad enough, but Mont was far worse. He not only forgot his _rôle_ as completely as if he had never learned it, but seemingly every other word but one in the whole Scottish language likewise.