All the same, she was conscious that a potential Darby was looming in the horizon, that she was not the woman to waste her life at the beck and call of a man who could talk to her as Romeo had last night. As all this was passing through her mind her eyes fell on an old bookshelf, on which various dusty old volumes were heaped. She walked over to the corner, wondering she had not noticed them before, and took one down: it was a book of plays. She stood reading to herself and laughed, then she replaced the volume and opened a book of Shelley’s poetry. She opened it at the last pages of a play and softly murmured the words to herself. By degrees she read louder, something about her voice struck her. She listened, it sounded different, a new beauty had come into it. She read on and on, wondering at the pathos of the tones she uttered, almost crying with sympathy. As she listened to the laments of Beatrice di Cenci, it seemed to her some inspired spirit had entered her body and was making use of her voice to reveal to her what life, and love, and divine sorrow meant. From that day she settled down to hard work. She heard that some of the words, as she spoke them, sounded round and full, and moved her to the depths of her heart; others sounded little and thin, and she resolved to work away until she had got all alike resonantly beautiful. Often she caught an ugly jarring sound in her voice when calling out to her little maid, and at once corrected herself. However she was occupied, she kept the one idea before her of making every sound she uttered beautiful. On Saturday night Travers brought down Lord Kirkdale to stay till Monday. Grace went to church, and was listening to the curate’s reading with a severely critical ear when she became aware that Kirkdale had entered the building. He overtook her as she was crossing the fields on her way home. He raised his hat, and said-- ‘So you are still here? I thought you would have left long ago, you seemed so terribly bored last time I had the pleasure of seeing you.’ ‘Yes, I’m still here.’ ‘And still bored?’ ‘No; I’m not bored now.’ ‘How is that?’ ‘I am studying something.’ ‘What?’ ‘Well, I suppose you’d laugh at a country girl like me if I told you, but I’m studying because I want to go back--I mean--I want to go on the stage.’ ‘I think it would be a very good idea.’ ‘Do you really? Oh, how nice it is to hear some one say that!’ ‘Why, don’t you get any encouragement from your people?’ ‘No, I don’t’ ‘Look here! can I help you in any way? I might perhaps be able to; I sometimes meet actors and fellows who know a lot about the stage.’ ‘Oh, thanks. I don’t think I want help--yet. But it is most kind of you to offer. I dare say I shall get a chance some day.’ ‘But I’ve always heard you can’t learn acting off the stage. You can’t do much by yourself down here surely?’