There was a stir of surprise from the audience, as the girlish figure was dimly discernible: the hair glittering in its fairness, the eyes soft, and yet full of hidden fire, the whole attitude one of extreme grace. For Penelope's soul had been fired with the music of that great song of songs; and the arrangement of the stage, the simplicity of the dress, the marvellous effects of light and shade had produced what--in very truth--seemed to be that very Helen who had driven men mad with love and longing so many centuries ago. Even Brenda held her breath. Wonder filled her soul, an emotion quite new to her stirred in her breast. She could not take her eyes from the figure at once so stately, so serene, so unlike that little Penelope whom she had always somewhat despised. Great, indeed, was Penelope's success when Brenda, the most matter-of-fact person in the world, forgot that she was her sister at that moment and realised within her breast and through that frail and fickle heart of hers something of the greatness of immortal love. The other figures dimly moved forward in their order: Cleopatra in her swarthy greatness; Jephtha's daughter, who so gladly obeyed her father's behest and died for the cause of Jehovah; Fair Rosamond, Iphigenia, the rest of that great group. But Brenda could only think of Helen. At last, the mistress' voice died away. The passionate words no longer filled the air. The young actors rushed out of sight, some to change their dresses, some to be congratulated by their friends. The last event of all the events was over. Congratulation and enthusiasm rose to a great height. Mrs Hazlitt was surrounded by friends who assured her that they had seldom seen anything finer in its way. Helen of Troy stood for a minute apart. There was a swelling lump in her throat. She had been the success of the evening. But for her, the tableaux might almost have been ridiculous. It was just because she forgot, and did the thing; just because for the time she was no longer Penelope--poor, plain, a girl who had to earn her bread by-and-by--but some other soul had inspired her--that Tennyson's "Dream of Fair Women" had become something to talk of in all the future days of the old school. But the enthusiasm which had filled her breast faded now. She was puzzled and frightened at her own emotions. She wandered a little way into the wood and, leaning her head against the trunk of a tree, burst into tears. It was there that Honora Beverley found her. "Why, surely, Helen--I mean Penelope," she said-- "Oh, leave me," said Penelope, turning swiftly. "Something is hurt in my heart--I don't know what it is, and yet--yes--I do know." "You did it splendidly! I couldn't have believed it of you--no one could." "It wasn't me," replied Penelope. "I did it because I couldn't help myself. Just for a minute I was raised into something else. Perhaps it was Mrs Hazlitt's voice; wasn't she wonderful?"