this structure, which had much the appearance of a barn, was now opened,
with the result that a confused sound, as of several people speaking at
once, made itself heard. Suddenly the noise gave place to a single
high-pitched voice:--

"'Welcome, my son! Here lay him down, my friends,
Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure
The bloody corse, and count those glorious wounds.'"

A smile irradiated Mistress Stagg's faded countenance, and she blew a kiss
toward the open window. "He does Cato so extremely well; and it's a grave,
dull, odd character, too. But Mirabell--that's Charles, you know--manages
to put a little life in it, a _Je ne sais quoi_, a touch of Sir Harry
Wildair. Now--now he's pulling out his laced handkerchief to weep over
Rome! You should see him after he has fallen on his sword, and is brought
on in a chair, all over blood. This is the third rehearsal; the play's
ordered for Monday night. Who is it, Peggy? Madam Travis! It's about the
lace for her damask petticoat, and there's no telling how long she may
keep me! My dear Deborah, when you have finished your wine, Peggy shall
show you your room. You must make yourself quite at home. For says I to
Mirabell this morning, 'Far be it from me to forget past kindnesses, and
in those old Bath days Deborah was a good friend to me,--which was no
wonder, to be sure, seeing that when we were little girls we went to the
same dame school, and always learned our book and worked our samplers
together.' And says Mirabell--Yes, yes, ma'am, I'm coming!"

She disappeared, and the black girl showed the two guests through the hall
and up a tiny stairway into a little dormer-windowed, whitewashed room.
Mistress Deborah, who still wore remnants of my Lady Squander's ancient
gifts of spoiled finery, had likewise failed to discard the second-hand
fine-lady airs acquired during her service. She now declared herself
excessively tired by her morning ride, and martyr, besides, to a migraine.
Moreover, it was enough to give one the spleen to hear Mary Stagg's magpie
chatter and to see how some folk throve, willy-nilly, while others just as
good--Here tears of vexation ensued, and she must lie down upon the bed
and call in a feeble voice for her smelling salts. Audrey hurriedly
searched in the ragged portmanteau brought to town the day before in the
ox-cart of an obliging parishioner, found the flask, and took it to the
bedside, to receive in exchange a sound box o