"Well ?"

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Oh, Miss Tolridge has got another dress, I see. I managed the matter capitally, didn't I? Have you a pair of silk stockings to lend me ?"

"Indeed I haven't."

Ogden, I've no soap."

"No, miss, I told you a week ago that you'd no soap."

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soap doesn't cost much, rub of Miss Leigh's or "Towel! towel! "Make haste, somebody,

Well," returns Miss Hunter, that's one comfort; so I'll take a Miss Douglass's." And she washes away. where's my towel?" she resumes. I've a wet face, and the soap is getting into my eyes." "You took your towels home last week, Miss."

"Law, did I? Never mind, give me Miss Douglass's." Ogden looks very cross as she hands the towel to the careless Miss Hunter.

"Ten minutes, ladies!" shouts Brill.

My dress fits like a sack," cries one.

"I wonder when I shall have a pair of shoes that will not resemble boats?" says another.

"We got away from rehearsal at a nice time to-day!" says a lady, in a complaining tone.

"I wish I were out of the profession!,

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Ah," returns Miss Price, dabbing her cheeks with a hare's-foot; "that's just what I say to my ma'!"

"I only wish some respectable man would propose to me!" says an ancient lady, as she puts on her wig, "I'd not stay here to play old women! Why, I used to play Juliet and Imogen, at Covent Garden."

There is a titter and a giggle passing round the room; but the Covent Garden Juliet is rather deaf, so the rudeness is not heard.

"I wish to goodness a man of fortune would propose to me!" exclaims a pretty woman; 66 see if I wouldn't cut

the stage!"

"That's what I say to my ma'!" chimes in Miss Nancy Price; "but where are the men of fortune?"

"You've none of you any soul for your profession," says Miss Leigh, indignantly; "I glory in my art, and am proud to say that I'm an actress. Do you imagine, with such milk-and-water feelings as you possess, that you can possibly

rise in the world? Talk about marrying men of money and position! Pooh! I'd rather marry a man of brains and

"That's what I say to my ma'!" interrupts Miss Nancy Price.

"What's money! I'd live in a garret," proceeds Miss Leigh ; "and work my fingers to the bone (as the saying is) rather than marry a gilded addle-pate."

"Hovertoor, ladies!" shouts Brill.

There is a general rush to the green-room: every lady takes a peep in the full-length glass and admires herselffor actresses are but women after all.

The green-room now presents a motley appearance. There is a noble familiarly chatting with a citizen. King Henry is practising his steps; while Buckingham, although about to be decapitated, is boisterously laughing over a caricature in Punch. The utmost order and good fellowship prevail, for in this theatre there is little envy or jealousy to be met with. Everybody called, please!" cries the call-boy.

We are now at the wings, which are literally crammed with actors, carpenters, property-men, dressers, and supers. People take their places on the stage, preparatory to the velvet curtains being drawn aside.

"What are you?" asks one super of another.

"A knight."

"You ought to have a lady: don't you see all the other knights has ladies?" observes the first speaker.

"In course; I'd be blind if I didn't see."

"Well, then, go and choose: I only wish I'd the chance to do so!"

"You've as good a chance as I have."

"How do you make that out, seeing as how you're a knight, an I's only the likes of a servant? I was to ha' been a knight; but one of the beefeaters took too much beer, so they've made a beefeater of me in his stid. I'll not do it a second night. I consider it a hinsult after bein' a knight to be derograded down to a low beefeater."

"A beefeater! I dunno what a beefeater is," says the knight super.

"I'll give Mr. Willert notice that if I'm not to be a knight I'll quit the theatre: I'll not put up with any of their hindignitaries.”

The manager comes forward to see that all is right, and the men cease talking: then the prompter waves his white flag (a signal to the drop-men), and the scene is discovered.

After some dialogue, the prompter again waves a flag, but this time it is a red one-the trumpeter's cue-and there is a grand flourish of trumpets, and the business of the scene rapidly proceeds.

The evening passes on it is ten o'clock, and the play is not yet finished.

Some of the actresses (not engaged in the present scene) are in the green-room; others are in their dressing-rooms, preferring to work and chat amongst themselves.

There are, you perceive, amongst actresses a singular mixture of character to be found.

Miss

The juvenile-lady is thoughtful, refined, and graceful. The leading comedy-lady is showy, piquant, and elegant; while the heavy-lady is dignified and majestic. The soubrette is the only one likely to fall into vulgar manners. Hunter is the soubrette of this theatre; but she is not, thank goodness, the general type of chamber-maids. There is a great difference between chattering through a part and acting it. There are many women now on the stage whose beauty is their sole recommendation, who are not-nay, never will be-actresses. But we will not talk further on that subject, or I shall get riled, as the Americans

say.

The play is finished; and the performers, some of whom act in the farce, are quickly disrobing. Glistening satins are now exchanged for old, sober-coloured, silken gowns, kept for night wear.

Miss Hunter's bonnet has been sat upon. No wonder at that, the dresser says; when ladies come in at the last moment their things are tossed anywhere.

Miss Leigh has lost one of her boots.

The dresser is not astonished at that, either; as Miss Leigh's boots are so very tiny.

Somebody has upset Miss Douglass's powder-box; the contents of which are scattered amongst her combs and brushes. Miss Douglass feels assured that Miss Hunter is the perpetrator of the dusty deed; but Miss Douglass, though a victim in many ways, never grumbles.

"Good night, ladies," says Miss Leigh, leaving the apartment.

She will descend to the hall, tell the Cerberus once more to call her a "coach," and she will go home to her widowed mother; to whom she is a pride and a blessing.

One by one the actresses depart; and the dressers are busy folding up and putting away the various articles which have been worn this night.

At length the farce is over, and those who have acted in it are gone home.

In the gentlemen's dressing-rooms men are shaking and wrapping up the different costumes worn by knights, barons, aldermen, priests, pursuivants, henchmen, guards, ushers, fifers, mace-bearers, and footmen. What a conglomeration of habiliments! and what an endless task it must be to sort and put away these things without mixture or confusion; but the men know their business.

The wigs are placed in boxes, and committed to the keeping of the hairdresser of the establishment; and the dresses are carried up to the wardrobe, there to remain till the next night's performance.

The dressers and other servants now extinguish the lights and quit the rooms. The green-room is in darkness, the stage-lights are all out; and the watchman (who will remain in the theatre through the night) with his lantern is going his rounds, to see that no jet of gas has been left burning. Even the Cerberus is gone: and on this stage-so late a scene of brilliancy-the rats now hold high festival.

CHAPTER XXII.

THE sisters each night progressed in public favour; and various were the opinions entertained respecting their individual merits. Unlike in voice, in manners, and in person, yet both so fascinating and talented, they commanded an equal share of admiration and praise.

Paul Grahame trembled when he heard of their success; trembled with fear lest he should lose her upon whom his whole heart was fixed: he knew her father's worldly nature, and also the power he exercised over her. Sometimes the lover would fly to his easel and impatiently work at his picture. "I, too, will be great!" he would say ; "I will win a name-a celebrity which shall rival hers; she must not wed one beneath her." 'Rina's letters proved continual incentives-spurs that hied him on to labour incessantly; till his wearied hand could no longer hold the pencil, and his anxious spirit waxed sadder and sadder.

The picture grows under the marvellous touches of an inspired pencil, while the fingers that guide that pencil become transparent and weak.

People flock to the artist's studio to gaze upon the wondrous picture-(a scene from "A Midsummer Night's Dream") in the centre of which stands the figure of 'Rina, as Titania, surrounded by floating forms of exquisite loveliness and grace but she, their queen, shines brightest of them all. Her full blue orbs, curtained with long lashes; her smooth white brow, to which the golden circlet-studded with rich gems—gives regal dignity; her delicate lips, parted in a smile, revealing her brilliant teeth; the airy lightness of her symmetrical figure, around which her hair, in shiny wavelets, dances in the soft breeze; and her feet, so tiny, leaving uncrushed the tenderest flowers strewn in her pathway. Her beauty is like a ray of dazzling sunlight, and people, in amazement, stand riveted before the glowing canvas, wrapt in an ecstacy of admiration and delight.

One day, the Duke of Lissborough, who was a great patron