fair driver was a sprained ankle, contused face, and fast blackening eye.  Any amount of pain she would have cheerfully endured sooner than give up her evening’s excitement; but the unfortunate eye swelled, and got blacker and blacker, and nothing could be done.  Her despair was communicated to the whole corps, till Mr. Barton suggested a substitute in Bluebell.  It was carried nem. con., with the chilling consent of Mrs. Barrington, who, though she would not hear of Kate appearing thus disfigured, had tried in vain to persuade Lord Bromley to put off the play.  But he maintained it was now “too late for postponement; Barton had said the girl could act; and Kate deserved the disappointment, for she had no business to have upset herself,” etc.  In the meantime Mr. Barton had carried off Bluebell for a severe rehearsal.  The play was “The Loan of a Lover,” and as Peter Spyk he was interested in his Gertrude.  Sir Robert also, as Captain Amesfort, threw considerably more animus into his scene since the change of heroines.

Bluebell had tea with her pupils as usual, and joined in the dramatis persona in the green room at nine.  The company was arriving.  The front benches were soon filled with ladies, while the men stood about in the doorway, or looked over their heads.

Among the latter was Harry Dutton.  He had come without notice, too late to join the party at dinner, and, thinking the whole thing rather a bore, scarcely glanced at the stage.

“Mynheer Swizel!  Mynheer Swizel!” Dutton started as if he had been shot.  In a peasant’s dress, and running on to the stage greeted by a round of applause, he recognises Bluebell!  Here, at Bromley Towers!

Transfixed to the spot, his moonstruck gaze rivetted on the actors, people spoke to him, and he never heard.  Conjecture, wonder, doubts of his own sanity, were whirling his brain.  How did she get here, of all places in the world?  With whom?—­and under what name?  Heavens, if she should suddenly perceive him, and stop short or scream!  He moved behind a pillar, where he could observe unseen.  Peter Spyk was singing:—­

  “To-morrow will be market-day,
   The streets all thronged with lasses gay;
   And from a crowd so great, no doubt,
   Sweethearts enough I may pick out. 
       In verity, verity, verity aye,” etc

And then Gertrude, in a mocking voice, coquettishly sang,—­

  “Be not too bold, for hearts fresh caught,
   Are ne’er, I am told, to market brought
   The best, they say, are given away,
   And are not sold, on market-day. 
       In verity, verity, verity aye,” etc

A round of applause and an encore followed.  It was long since Harry had heard Bluebell’s voice, but he alone did not applaud.  The play proceeded, and then Sir Robert came in as Amesfort.  It hung a little here.  He floundered, gagged, forgot the cue, and the voice of the prompter became distinctly audible.  Happily, conceit bore him along.  Harry winced as he drawled to Gertrude, “Why, you are very pretty!” But when he proceeded to catch her round the waist and offered to kiss her, he mattered an oath, and half-started forward.  Warned by a look of curiosity in a bystander, Dutton fiercely controlled himself, but a burning desire to quarrel with Sir Robert took possession of him.