In another half-hour Emma accompanied Caroline into the

green-room: the poor girl suffered Emma to do as she pleased with her. She appeared to listen to her, but made no response to anything she said save by deeply sighing.

Mrs. Murden entered the apartment, and Emma remarked that Caroline shuddered violently.

"Here, Pops!" cried the lady in a loud voice.

"Yes, mum," said the call-boy, rushing into the room. "Whose bonnet is that?" demanded the lady, pointing to the wet bonnet left on the settee by Caroline.

"Dunno, mum."

"You never know anything," said Mrs. Murden, advancing towards the fireplace and taking up the tongs.

"Lor ha' mussy, mum! don't strike me with those things!" -and Pops retreated.

"Fool!" exclaimed the lady in suppressed rage, and, seizing the bonnet with the tongs-"There! take that thing to the ladies' dresser, with my compliments, and say that the next time any article of dress is left in the greenroom I shall not be so lenient as I am on the present occasion, for I shall throw the bonnet, or whatever it may chance to be, behind the fire."

Pops took the tongs out of the lady's gloved hands, and did his mistress's bidding to the letter.

Caroline's lips twitched, and her throat swelled as Mrs. Murden sailed out of the apartment.

"Madame Cardonizzi and Miss Grumby!" shouted Pops. Emma and Caroline rose and proceeded to the stage. "Come, cheer up!" whispered Emma, as they stood at the wing, waiting for their cue.

Mrs. Murden was standing in the opposite entrance, intently watching Caroline. Emma marked the lady's flushed cheeks and flashing eyes, and wondered whether she suspected the dreadful truth of the unhappy girl's position. The incident of the bonnet in the green-room and Mrs. Murden's coarse and unladylike behaviour respecting it, led Emma to fear that she more than suspected.

The cue was given, and, hand in hand, Emma and Caroline Grumby walked on the stage. Emma spoke first, and in accordance with the character of the scene, for some minutes kept her arms around the drooping girl. Then came 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.

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.