anding like a modern Samson with the wall of a house on his
back. The danger was over in a moment, and he was about to utter his
last speech, when the excited young scene-shifter, who had flown up a
ladder to repair the damage, leaned over to whisper 'All right', and
release Demi from his spread-eagle attitude: as he did so, a hammer
slipped out of his pocket, to fall upon the upturned face below,
inflicting a smart blow and literally knocking the Baron's part out of
his head.

'A quick curtain,' robbed the audience of a pretty little scene not down
on the bill; for the Marquise flew to staunch the blood with a cry of
alarm: 'Oh! John, you are hurt! Lean on me'--which John gladly did for a
moment, being a trifle dazed yet quite able to enjoy the tender touch of
the hands busied about him and the anxiety of the face so near his own;
for both told him something which he would have considered cheaply won
by a rain of hammers and the fall of the whole college on his head.

Nan was on the spot in a moment with the case that never left her
pocket; and the wound was neatly plastered up by the time Mrs Jo
arrived, demanding tragically:

'Is he too much hurt to go on again? If he is, my play is lost!'

'I'm all the fitter for it, Aunty; for here's a real instead of a
painted wound. I'll be ready; don't worry about me.' And catching up
his wig, Demi was off, with only a very eloquent look of thanks to the
Marquise, who had spoilt her gloves for his sake, but did not seem to
mind it at all, though they reached above her elbows, and were most
expensive.

'How are your nerves, Fletcher?' asked Mr Laurie as they stood together
during the breathless minute before the last bell rings.

'About as calm as yours, Beaumont,' answered Mrs Jo, gesticulating
wildly to Mrs Meg to set her cap straight.

'Bear up, partner! I'll stand by you whatever comes!'

'I feel that it ought to go; for, though it's a mere trifle, a good deal
of honest work and truth have gone into it. Doesn't Meg look the picture
of a dear old country woman?'

She certainly did, as she sat in the farmhouse kitchen by a cheery fire,
rocking a cradle and darning stockings, as if she had done nothing else
all her life. Grey hair, skilfully drawn lines on the forehead, and a
plain gown, with cap, little shawl, and check apron, changed her into a
comfortable, motherly creature who found favour the moment the curtain
went up and discovered her rocking, darning, and croo