"My dear child," said Aunt Leth, "don't talk of repayment. You are as one of our own. What we do comes from our hearts. So you will manage to come here early on Sat.u.r.day, and remain till Tuesday or Wednesday."

"No, aunt," said Phoebe, with many kisses, "I can't do that. You must all come to me."

"To you, dear! Where?"

"To Parksides, aunt."

Aunt Leth looked grave. "Have you your father's permission, Phoebe?"

"Yes, aunt; he gave it willingly. I don't mean to say it was his idea; it was mine, and he consented at once when I asked him. I can only ask you to a poor little tea," said Phoebe, her lips slightly trembling, "but I hope you won't mind. I should so like it! Uncle Leth and f.a.n.n.y and Bob have never been to Parksides, and though I can't give them a grand entertainment, I don't think it will make any difference."

"Nothing can make any difference in our love for you, my dear."

"Then you _will_ come, all of you!"

"Yes, dear, we will come, because I see it will be a pleasure to you, and that will make it a pleasure to us."

Aunt Leth pressed her hand fondly over the young girl's head, and just for one moment there were tears in both their eyes; but they were instantly dried, and with a smile and a kiss they busied themselves preparing for the reading of the play. These were soon completed, and the gentlemen were called in.

"Capital! capital!" exclaimed Kiss, as he contemplated the arrangements--the lights on the table, the chairs ranged round, the place of honour for himself so disposed that he could either sit or stand. "As good as a green-room, Linton."

"A great deal better," said the author, thinking of the various vain interests comprised in a company of actors, each listening to the lines of the character he was to play, and calling the piece good or bad according to the strength or weakness of that special part of it. He took his ma.n.u.script from his pocket and handed it to Kiss. The actor gazed with calm and impressive dignity at his audience. His movements were few and quiet and stately. He knew the value of repose. He was in his glory, master of the situation, and equal to the occasion. He opened the ma.n.u.script and was about to commence, when a diversion occurred. There was a sound at the door as of some person outside. Aunt Leth went to the door, opened it, glided into the pa.s.sage, and returned.

"It is our servant," she whispered to Kiss. "She has heard of the reading, and implores to be allowed to be present. She is a very good girl. May she?"

"By all means," said Kiss. "A theatre is a packet of all sorts. Admit her."

In came 'Melia Jane, who, with awe on her features, seated herself at the back of the room, and fixed her eyes upon Kiss, who was to her a greater than Jove.

Then Kiss commenced in earnest, and quickly held his audience in thrall. He moved them to tears; he moved them to laughter. He so individualized each character, male and female, that there was no difficulty in following the course of the story. It contained tender and comic episodes, to which he gave full and distinctive weight, "bringing down the house," as he afterwards said, again and again.

There was a song in the play, which he rendered amidst great applause; and as the author heard it, and saw the delighted appreciation of the little company, he hugged himself, as it were, and whispered inly: "It must be a success. It cannot, cannot fail!" Although the reading occupied two hours, there was not the least sign of weariness; and when it was finished, author and actor were overwhelmed with congratulations. As for 'Melia Jane, she so laughed, and cried, and clapped her hands, and stamped her feet, that the happy author, poor as he was, slyly slipped a shilling into her hand.

"It is," said Uncle Leth, "the very finest play that was ever written."

Upon this they were all agreed; and everyone prophesied a glorious success. Incidentally, Aunt Leth remarked, "And how beautifully you sang that song, Mr. Kiss."

"Did I?" said Kiss. "Shall I sing you another?"

The proposal was received with clapping of hands; and Kiss sang "Tom Bowline" with such tender effect that he was called upon for another.

"No," he said; "ask Linton. He knows a splendid song in another vein.

Sing 'Little Billee,' Linton."

In the joy of his heart Mr. Linton could not refuse, and he began to sing Thackeray's "astonishing piece of nonsense." He had a thin quavering voice which suited the air; but somehow or other the song was not a success with this particular audience. Upon 'Melia Jane the effect was alarming. When the singer came to the lines,

"There's little Bill is young and tender, We're old and tough, so let's eat he,"

she slowly rose from her chair, with horror depicted on her face. The singer went on:

"'O Bill, we're going to kill and eat you, So undo the collar of your chemie.'

"When Bill received this infumation He used his pocket-handkerchie.

"'O let me say my catechism, As my poor mammy taught to me!'"

Here 'Melia Jane burst out blubbering so violently that she had to be conducted from the room. Mr. Linton concluded the song, however; but the applause which attended his effort was rather faint, and Kiss found it necessary to explain that the lines were really only nonsense lines.

He himself soon restored the equilibrium by a sweet rendering of "Sally in our Alley"; and then followed other songs, by Phoebe and f.a.n.n.y, and an old-fashioned duet by Aunt and Uncle Leth. Then there was a little bit of supper, at which Uncle Leth proposed the toast of "Success to Mr. Linton's delightful play," to which the author responded in feeling terms, and spoke of the happy evening he had spent. After actor and author were gone, Phoebe and the Lethbridges stopped up for an hour talking over the incidents of this remarkable night; but Uncle Leth said nothing of the bill for three hundred pounds to which he had put his name.

CHAPTER XIII.

CURL-PAPER CONFIDENCES.

When two young women are closeted in their bedchamber after a pleasant day, and preparing for repose, then is the time for the interchange of sacred confidences. The events of the last few hours are touched upon with significant emphasis, the gentlemen are discussed and judged, and their personal peculiarities and excellencies commented upon with approval or otherwise. However quiet, demure, and comparatively un.o.bservant the young ladies may have been, depend upon it not the smallest detail of the gentlemen's dress and manners has escaped their penetrating eyes. Especially is this the case upon the occasion of the introduction of a new male acquaintance. Everything appertaining to him is recalled, from the parting of his hair to the tying of his shoestrings. It would much astonish him to hear the pretty girls (all girls are pretty in their spring-time), who seemed to scarcely have courage to glance at him, speak of the colour of his eyes, of the cut of his clothes, of the quality of his moustache, of the size of his hands and feet, and the shape of his finger-nails. No learned judge in his summing up was ever so precise and correct, and the beauty or the despair of it is that these gossiping damsels are not only judges but juries, from whose verdict there is absolutely no appeal. Of course such sacred confidences are all the more interesting when the subjects for dissection are young unmarried men.

Many such conversations had Phoebe and f.a.n.n.y held, and now, according to their wont, they proceeded to discuss the incidents of the evening, as they made their preparations for bed.

"I have often thought it a pity," said Phoebe, "that Mr. Kiss is not married."

"It _is_ a pity," a.s.sented f.a.n.n.y; "he is so good-natured and jolly that he deserves a good wife."

"And so clever," remarked Phoebe.

"And so good-looking. Phoebe, depend upon it, he has been crossed in love."

Phoebe sighed, and f.a.n.n.y echoed the sigh. To these young hearts the very idea of being crossed in love was terribly sad.

"I _do_ hope Mr. Linton's play will be a success," said f.a.n.n.y, after a little pause. "Isn't it wonderful how a person can think of it all?"

"It is certain to be a success," said Phoebe, taking the last hair-pin out of her beautiful hair, which fell in waves over her shoulders.

f.a.n.n.y gazed at her admiringly, and a charming picture indeed did the young girl present at that moment.

"If I envy you anything, Phoebe," said f.a.n.n.y, "it is your hair. No one would think you had half as much."

"That's because it's so fine," said Phoebe, with a pleased smile.

"It's as fine as the finest silk," said f.a.n.n.y, lifting bunches of it, and giving her cousin a quick affectionate kiss. "But you mustn't think I really envy you, Phoebe."

"I don't. I would change with you if I could."

"No, you wouldn't; no, you wouldn't," cried f.a.n.n.y, with a merry laugh, "any more than I would with you."

"I am sure your hair is lovely, f.a.n.n.y."