“That's a lie,” said Shuter, who was in the act of going on the stage as Mr. Hardcastle. “'Tis a lie, Dr. Goldsmith. The success of your play was assured from the first.” “By God! Mr. Colman, if it is a lie I'll never look on you as a friend while I live!” said Goldsmith. CHAPTER XIV. It was a lie, and surely the most cruel and most objectless lie ever uttered. Goldsmith was soon made aware of this. The laughter that followed Tony Lumpkin's pretending to his mother that Mr. Hard-castle was a highwayman was not the laugh of playgoers who have endured four acts of a dull play; it was the laugh of people who have been in a good humour for over two hours, and Goldsmith knew it. He perceived from their laughter that the people in every part of the house were following the comedy with extraordinary interest. Every point in the dialogue was effective--the exquisite complications, the broad fun, the innumerable touches of nature, all were appreciated by an audience whose expression of gratification fell little short of rapture. When the scene was being shifted Col-man left the stage and did not return to it until it was his duty to come forward after the epilogue was spoken by Mrs. Bulkley and announce the date of the author's night. As soon as the manager had disappeared Goldsmith had a chance of speaking to several of the actors at intervals as they made their exits, and from them he learned the whole truth regarding the play: from the first scene to the one which was being represented, the performance had been a succession of triumphs, not only for the author, but for every member of the company concerned in the production. With old dresses and scenery familiar to all frequenters of the playhouse, the extraordinary success of the comedy was beyond all question. The allusion to the offensive terms of the Royal Marriage Act was especially relished by the audience, several of the occupants of the pit rising to their feet and cheering for some time--so much Goldsmith learned little by little at intervals from the actors. “I swore never to look on Colman as my friend again, and I'll keep my word; he has treated me cruelly--more cruelly than he has any idea of,” said Goldsmith to Lee Lewes. “But as for you, Mr. Lewes, I'll do anything that is in my power for you in the future. My poor play owes much to you, sir.” “Faith then, sir,” cried Lewes, “I'll keep you to your word. My benefit will take place in a short time; I'll ask you for a prologue, Dr. Goldsmith.” “You shall have the best prologue I ever wrote,” said Goldsmith. And so he had. When the house was still cheering at the conclusion of the epilogue, Goldsmith, overcome with emotion, hurried into the green room. Mrs. Abington was the first person whom he met. She held down her head, and affected a guilty look as she glanced at him sideways through half-closed eyes.