Sir Henry Spreadbrow SIR WILLIAM MAGNAY, BART. (an Old Indian Judge) Miss Northcott MISS ETHEL B. HARLEY. Ruth (her maid-servant) MISS MAUD HOLT (afterwards LADY BEERBOHM TREE). Scenery painted by Miss Ethel B. Harley, Proscenium by General Anderson. Number 25, Harley Street, is the residence of Doctor George Harley, F.R.S., the mention of whose name will at once recall to the readers of _Home_ “My Ghost Story”—so weird a narrative that, to my thinking, it was a pity to mar its dramatic effect by explanation. To the general public, he is better known by the results of his labours in the field of medical science; but it is only his friends who are aware of his large experience, his wide knowledge, and his untiring efforts to make the age in which he lives wiser, happier, better. Though still, comparatively speaking, young, he has been on terms of intimacy with most of the men of the Victorian era, whose memories (alas! we live fast now and the great die too soon) will never be forgotten while the English language remains to tell of their achievements; and his conversation teems with anecdotes concerning famous beauties, authors, artists, statesmen, millionaires. No pleasanter hour could be spent than in hearing his kindly appreciative talk concerning “People I have known.” His observation of the habits of animals also has been marvellous. I never recollect reading anything which conveyed so vivid a picture to my mind, as his verbal description of a lake haunted by wild swans in Scotland. At the door of his house, then, do we find ourselves. Such a day! the rain pouring down in torrents, the sky leaden, the earth soppy, all cabs engaged, all trains full, all omnibuses wretched. But once across the hospitable threshold, life casts its cloud-tints, and sunshine seems to reign. We go upstairs. Can this possibly be the remembered drawing-room? It is parted off from door to window, the side next the hearth being converted into the stage, and the larger half admirably arranged for the accommodation of the spectators. * * * * * So, the lover comes to say farewell, and the young lady’s manner will not let him say more. One does not quite like—at least an old fogey like myself, with ideas as much out of fashion as his coat, hesitates, even in such an exclusive publication as _Home_—to talk about the charms of a living maiden in print; but yet in some future happy time Miss Harley may like to show eyes still younger and brighter than her own are now, the impression she produced upon one not too impressible. Most fair, most sweet, most lovable. With respect as profound as our admiration is deep we write this sentence. We look and wonder. So young, so gifted! * * * * *