a Cottage in Winter, appears)—­to the—­ah—­home of Valentine’s mother.  You will observe a light in the casement.  By that light the good old woman is sitting, longing and praying for the return of her gallant boy.  Ah, dear children, what a thing a good old mother is! (To the Vicar’s Daughter.  “I really can not keep on like this much longer.  I’m positively certain these slides are out of order!”) The V.’s D. “Oh no; I’m sure it’s all right.  Do please go on.  They’re so interested!” The Young Heckler. “’Ow bout Valentoine, Zur?—­wheer be ’ee?” Ah, where is Valentine, indeed? (To Ass.) Next slide—­quick! (Recognises with dismay a View of the Grand Canal.) No—­but, I say—­really I can’t—­Here we have Valentine at Venice.  He has reached that beautiful city,—­well called the Queen of the Adriatic,—­at last!  He contemplates it from his gondola, and yet he has no heart just now to take in all the beauty of the scene.  He feels that he is still no nearer to finding Orson than before. (The Young Heckler.  “Naw moor be we, Zur.  We ain’t zeed nayther on ’em zo fur!” Tumult, and a general demand for the instant production of Orson or Valentine.) Now, children, children! this is very irregular.  You must allow me to tell this story my own way.  You will see them both in good time, if you only keep still! (To Ass.) I can’t stand this any more.  Valentine and Orson must be underneath the rest.  Find them, and shove them in quick.  Never mind the numbering! (The screen remains blank while the Assistant fumbles.) Well, have you got them?

The Assistant.  No, Sir; I’m rather afraid they ain’t here.  Fact is, they’ve sent me out with the wrong set o’ slides.  This ain’t Valentine and Orson—­it’s a miscellaneous lot, Sir!

    [Collapse of Curate as Scene closes in.

* * * * *

THE MIXTURE AS BEFORE.

(BY AN IMPATIENT—­INFLUENZA—­PATIENT.)

  I bust suppose the Doctor dose,
    (I do not bead a pud!)
  What ails be; but that aidlbelt grows!
    This Subber brigs do sud. 
  Subtibes the east wids blow like bad,
    Subtibes code showers pour,
  But daily cubs that doctor’s lad,—­
    “The Bixture as Before!”

  The Idfluedza I have got,
    Or I ibadgid so;
  Subtibes I’b cold, subtibes I’b hot,
    I cough, I sdeeze, I blow,
  But GLADSTUD’s better, SBITH is well,
    I do dot bend.  O lor!—­
  There’s that codfonded kitchid bell;
    “The Bixture as Before!”

  I’ve had at least a budth of it,
    Sidtz I was first struck dowd,
  Yet here id slippered feet I sit! 
    By daily half-a-crowd—­
  For bedsud taxes by poor purse. 
    It is ad awfud bore. 
  This bedsud bakid be feel worse—­
    “The Bixture as Before!”