ement with the slavey, had been an actress in Charles
Keane's company at the old Princess's. There, it is true, she had played
only insignificant parts. London, as she would explain to us was even
then but a poor judge of art, with prejudices. Besides an actor-manager,
hampered by a wife--we understood. But previously in the Provinces there
had been a career of glory: Juliet, Amy Robsart, Mrs. Haller in "The
Stranger"--almost the entire roll of the "Legitimates". Showed we any
signs of disbelief, proof was forthcoming: handbills a yard long, rich
in notes of exclamation: "On Tuesday Evening! By Special Desire!!!
Blessington's Theatre! In the Meadow, adjoining the Falcon Arms!"--"On
Saturday! Under the Patronage of Col. Sir William and the Officers of
the 74th!!!! In the Corn Exchange!" Maybe it would convince us further
were she to run through a passage here and there, say Lady Macbeth's
sleep-walking scene, or from Ophelia's entrance in the fourth act? It
would be no trouble; her memory was excellent. We would hasten to assure
her of our perfect faith.

Listening to her, it was difficult, as she herself would frankly admit,
to imagine her the once "arch Miss Lucretia Barry;" looking at her, to
remember there had been an evening when she had been "the cynosure of
every eye." One found it necessary to fortify oneself with perusal of
underlined extracts from ancient journals, much thumbed and creased,
thoughtfully lent to one for the purpose. Since those days Fate had
woven round her a mantle of depression. She was now a faded, watery-eyed
little woman, prone on the slightest provocation to sit down suddenly On
the nearest chair and at once commence a history of her troubles. Quite
unconscious of this failing, it was an idea of hers that she was an
exceptionally cheerful person.

"But there, fretting's no good. We must grin and bear things in this
world," she would conclude, wiping her eyes upon her apron. "It's better
to laugh than to cry, I always say." And to prove that this was no mere
idle sentiment, she would laugh then and there upon the spot.

Much stair-climbing had bestowed upon her a shortness of breath, which
no amount of panting in her resting moments was able to make good.

"You don't know 'ow to breathe," explained our second floor front to
her on one occasion, a kindly young man; "you don't swallow it, you
only gargle with it. Take a good draught and shut your mouth; don't
be frightened of it; don't let