Caroline's reply, delivered in a cold, quivering tone. The old prompter wiped his spectacles, took a large pinch of snuff, and with an uneasy look, glanced towards his daughter. Emma (still in the business of the scene) walked away to look out of a window, and Caroline remained standing at the foot-lights, muttering over the words of her part. Suddenly there was the report of a pistol, and with a scream Caroline reeled a few paces, and then fell in a heap upon the stage. Emma was by her side in an instant, and from behind the scenes, and also from the front of the house, which was now in a state of confusion, numbers of people rushed forward.

The girl was carried to the green-room and laid on a settee there, and the doctor in attendance told her frantic father that the bullet had fatally done its work-his daughter had not half an hour to live.

Mr. Murden, pale as a ghost, staggered into the room. "Who had fired the pistol?" he demanded.

"A young man from one of the stage-boxes," was the reply.

"Is he in custody?" asked Mr. Murden, scarcely knowing what he said.

"Yes," answered a bystander, "but he himself is dyinghe had taken a dose of poison before he shot the girl.” * "Who-who is the man?"

"He's a Manchester man of the name of William Prescott," rejoined another bystander.

Mr. Murden groaned deeply.

Grumby hung over his child, and wept, and tore his gray hair in all the passion of frenzied grief. He watched the glazing eye and listened for the throbbing of her heart; he stooped to press her lips ("the doors of breath ")—they were cold-the old man was childless.

* The tragic event here described is no fiction--save as respects the scene of its occurrence.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE sad catastrophe recorded in the last chapter threw the whole company into consternation and dismay: the audience fled, horror-stricken at the shocking incident, and hundreds of people assembled round the theatre, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the murderer. William Prescott had been carried into the manager's apartment, from which the surgeon would not permit him to be removed.

Poor Grumby folded his arms around the body of his daughter, and strained it to his breast it was terrible to see the father's affliction, and heart-rending to listen to his mingled prayers and curses. They tried to separate him from the corpse, whereupon he became so violent that it was thought better to let his sorrow have full vent.

Emma shuddered as she hearkened to the parent's loud and bitter execrations against the murderer of his child; while Mr. Murden sat pale as a spectre, his teeth chattering and his limbs shaking as if he were ague-smitten. Two or three times he attempted to rise and quit the awful scene, but he found that he had not the power to move he was helpless as an infant. With his fingers pressed over his ears he endeavoured to shut out the old man's cries and maledictions.

"Curse, curse the hand that did this deed!" cried Grumby, with appalling earnestness. "Curse the villain !Oh!" he added, addressing the surgeon,-" oh, feel-feel her pulse, doctor! it must beat still-she is not dead—no, no ; she cannot be dead! I looked upon her breathing form and heard her voice an hour ago! Who struck this blow? Who robbed me of my daughter? Show him to me! I am an old man, but I have strength to-to-to-oh,—Carry! Carry!"—and poor Grumby was seized with frightful convulsions.

At this moment Mrs. Murden entered the green-room and whispered to her husband, "William Prescott is dead." Mr. Murden uttered a despairing cry, and buried his face in his handkerchief.

Grumby's insensible form is borne out of the apartment. And now the women gather round the dead girl, and enwrap her in a large dark cloak. They wipe the rouge off her white cheeks, and withdraw from her hair the bright red rose. The women sob and shed sad tears as they render these tender offices unto the inanimate clay. Meanwhile a stretcher has been brought, upon which they place the corpse; a few moments more, and it is covered, and Mrs. Murden leads her husband to a fly which waits at the stagedoor, and conveys him to his home.

There were only three beings in the world who knew the actual circumstances connected with that direful tragedy, of which many stories were circulated, and many guesses hazarded, but all equally wide of the truth.

CHAPTER XV.

Two years had gone by, and old Grumby and his dead daughter were wellnigh forgotten. Prosperity had crowned all Mrs. Murden's speculations-I speak of Mrs. Murden, because her husband was seldom recognized in business transactions ;—and matters appeared, on the surface, to glide on smoothly and pleasantly. But Mr. Murden drank, drank hard, and his home became a scene of riot, dissipation, and quarrel. His fierce temper knew no bounds, and if his wife remonstrated with him, or refused to satisfy his demands for money, he did not curb his tongue or stay his cruel hand; and Mrs. Murden, in return for her blind and lavish affection, received from her brutal husband not only harsh words but savage blows.

In the theatre Mrs. Murden's behaviour continued as usual; therefore few of the company surmised the real state of her domestic affairs. She was a disappointed woman, but pride kept her silent regarding her wrongs, while her heart was wrung with mortification and anguish.

Grumby, the prompter, wandered about the town a crazed and homeless beggar. Since the night of his daughter's death he had never entered the doors of the theatre. Mr. Murden had enjoined his wife never to mention the horrible tragedy, or even Caroline Grumby's name in his hearing; so the old man was left to exist upon public charity, for the actors were most of them either so poor or so burdened with large families as to be unable to assist him. But Grumby asked no aid from the Murdens, nor from any one. When he was hungry he would cry and call on Caroline for bread. Almost everybody in the town knew Crazy Grumby, and to all who would listen to him he told a wild and rambling story, of how a devil had spirited away his daughter, whose hiding-place he was endeavouring to find out. In gateways and fields, under a house porch, or on the steps of a church, Grumby slept each night. Many benevolent gentlemen would have provided the miserable man with proper shelter, but he refused to accept of a home: he must be abroad, he said, and watch for the devil who had stolen his daughter Caroline. One day Mr. Murden had strolled along the banks of the river till he had left the town far behind him. Of a sudden he heard a shout, and a cracked, discordant voice exclaimed

Stop! stop! I know you-you are the devil! Stop! stop!"

Mr. Murden quickened his footsteps, and his heart beat faster and faster.

"Where is she, devil?" continued the voice.

Murden then glanced at the speaker, who now stood gasping by his side.

Horror! it was the father of his murdered victim. With a cry of terror Murden staggered onward.

"Aha! you're the devil!" exclaimed Grumby, following. "Aha! I'll catch you now, you devil!"

The drunkard was weak, and his brain was muddled with the fumes of brandy. His pursuer was strong; madness gave him almost superhuman strength.

On, on reeled Murden, with the crazed creature close at his heels.

"Oho! devil! where is she? What have you done with my Caroline, eh?" cried he, grasping at Murden's throat.

"Let me go!" rejoined he violently; "let me go, old man, or I shall do you mischief!"

"I want my Caroline!" cried Grumby, tightening his grip. "Wretch !" exclaimed Murden; "let go your hold, you're strangling me!"

"Aha! the devil's transformed into a cat," yelled Grumby, becoming furious; "let's drown him! let's drown him!" "Maniac!"

"Caroline!"

Look, look! watch their deadly struggle! The tall man's face grows purple, and his eyes stare wildly. Now, now they fall, locked in a fierce embrace-they reel towards the edge of the river-no hand is near to part them. Oh, Heaven! there is a plash-they have disappeared-the bubbling waters have closed over the two men- -they rise—their arms are interlaced in death's despairing clasp-they sink again : now-now-all's over!

Their corpses

Thus Mr. Murden and Grumby died. were picked up on the following day. The old prompter's body was thrust into a pauper's coffin, and he was carried to his grave unwept, uncared for.

A hearse, with heavy, waving plumes, bore Mr. Murden to his last home, and despite his unworthiness and cruelty, his wife mourned him deeply.

A boy from the opposite side of the river had witnessed the madman's attack upon Mr. Murden, and from the lad's account of what he had seen it appeared quite evident that Grumby had not recognized the manager, as he had never once mentioned the name of his victim, the sight of whom must have suddenly awaked terrible memories in the madman's heart and set his brain on fire. God alone had worked this frightful end to Murden's career of sin. Grumby was simply an instrument through whom He dealt his blow of

vengeance.

Mrs. Murden lost her energy and neglected her business so much, that the theatre, which had hitherto been so well conducted, now fell into bad repute. The plays were ill dressed and worse acted, and one by one the performers gave up their engagements, and quitted Newcastle in search of a more prosperous management.

Julius and his family, with many others, were on half