Once when engaged at some country theatre in Scotland the company were playing in ‘Cramond Brig,’ a good sound old melodrama—of excellent humour, too. Years later, when the prosperous manager and actor was directing the Lyceum, some of the audience were surprised to find him disinterring this ancient drama, and placing it at the opening of the night’s performance. But I fancy it was the associations of this little adventure that had given it a corner in his memory, and secured for it a sort of vitality. Thus he tells the story: “When the play was being rehearsed, our jolly manager said, ‘Now, boys, I shall stand a real supper to-night; no paste-board and parsley, but a real sheep’s head, and a little drop of real Scotch.’ A tumult of applause. “The manager was as good as his word, for at night there was a real head well equipped with turnips and carrots, and the ‘drop of real Scotch.’ The ‘neighbour’s bairn,’ an important character in the scene, came in and took her seat beside the miller’s chair. She was a pretty, sad-eyed, intelligent child of some nine years old. In the course of the meal, when Jock Howison was freely passing the whisky, she leaned over to him and said, ‘Please, will you give me a little?’ He looked surprised. She was so earnest in her request, that I whispered to her, ‘To-morrow, perhaps, if you want it very much, you shall have a thimbleful.’ “To-morrow night came, and, as the piece was going on, to my amusement, she produced from the pocket of her little plaid frock a bright piece of brass, and held it out to me. I said, ‘What’s this?’ ‘A thimble, sir.’ ‘But what am I to do with it?’ ‘You said that you would give me a thimbleful of whisky if I wanted it, and I do want it.’ “This was said so naturally, that the audience laughed and applauded. I looked over to the miller, and found him with the butt-end of his knife and fork on the table, and his eyes wide open, gazing at us in astonishment. However, we were both experienced enough to pass off this unrehearsed effect as a part of the piece. I filled the thimble, and the child took it back carefully to her little ‘creepy’ stool beside the miller. I watched her, and presently saw her turn her back to the audience and pour it into a little halfpenny tin snuff-box. She covered the box with a bit of paper, and screwed on the lid, thus making the box pretty watertight, and put it into her pocket. “When the curtain fell, our manager came forward and patted the child’s head. ‘Why, my little girl,’ said he, ‘you are quite a genius. Your gag is the best thing in the piece. We must have it in every night. But, my child, you mustn’t drink the whisky. No, no! that would never do.’ “‘Oh, sir, indeed I won’t; I give you my word I won’t!’ she said quite earnestly, and ran to her dressing-room.