“Like it?” she remarked, viciously biting off her cotton with her strong white teeth. “I never seed anythink more morotonous in all my born days! Call thet a ply? I calls it a reglar ’owlin’ swindle!” “Why? What was the matter with it?” I inquired mildly. “What was it called?” “Fust!” she retorted ferociously, and for a minute I wondered what she meant, till it dawned on me that she probably meant _Faust_. “Well, what happened?” I coaxed. “You might just tell me, Belinda.” “Ow, I dun know,” she answered sulkily. “There was a sort of a cellar plyce, kinder prison, with a old cove a-reading in a book, an’ then ’e began ter jaw, and ’e could do it too. I thought ’e’d never leave off, an’ I’d jest said ter my Joe, ‘What’s thet there old cove a-doing of?’ when there comes fireworks, an’ someone in red ’ops out of ’em, an’ if ’e don’t bergin ter jaw! My word, it was sick’nin’!” and she relapsed into gloomy silence. “But, Belinda,” I put in, “they are obliged to talk to let you know what the story is about. If they did it all without speaking, you might not understand it.” “An’ small loss,” she retorted uncompromisingly. “I didn’t understand it as it was. In one part three or four people went into a church, an’ I says, sarcastick-like, ‘It must be a weddin’, sech lots o’ people agoin’ to church,’ but Joe says it was meant there was a service agoin’ on, an’ all I ken say is it was a werry poor congregeration.” “Oh, of course, it is all make-believe,” I said soothingly. “They had not really got a church there, you know, and the people were not attending a service inside but only pretending to.” “Well, I ’aven’t got the time nor the money ter spend on lookin’ at things wot ain’t true,” she replied with decision, “an’ wot’s more, I sha’n’t let my Joe go neither. It ain’t wuth it,” which was astonishingly sensible of her, I thought. While heartily approving of her decision, I could not resist asking her whether what she called “fireworks” had not pleased her. “Purty well,” she replied reflectively, “I’ve seen better ones, but at leastes they was real. There was one scene with a founting where the gals shunted that cove in red, an’ then the founting ran fire, but I spose that was make-believe too,” and, alas, I was unable to deny it. I was rather relieved to find that her first visit to the theatre was likely to be her last, and had certainly not given her a taste for that sort of amusement (which I had been half afraid it might), and, by dint of great exertion on my part, I managed to restore her wonted good-humour before we parted. (_To be continued._) ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS. GIRLS’ EMPLOYMENTS.