re fell presently the soft, sweet
notes of the professor's violin, and Miss Bond's musical voice began the
story of the Vision of Sir Launfal.

"My golden spurs now bring to me,
And bring to me my richest mail,
For to-morrow I go over land and sea
In search of the Holy Grail."

Here the curtains were drawn apart to show Malcolm seated on his pony as
Sir Launfal, "in his gilded mail that flamed so bright." It was really
a beautiful picture he made, and his grandmother, leaning forward, her
face beaming with pride at the boy's noble bearing, compared him with
Arthur himself, "with lance in rest, from spur to plume a star of
tournament,"

The next tableau showed him spurning the leper at his gate, and turning
away in disgust from the beggar who "seemed the one blot on the summer
morn." How Miss Bond's voice rang out when "the leper raised not the
gold from the dust."

"Better to me the poor man's crust.
That is no true alms which the hand can hold.
He gives nothing but worthless gold
Who gives from a sense of duty."

In the next tableau it was "as an old bent man, worn-out and frail,"
that Sir Launfal came back from his weary pilgrimage. He had not found
the Holy Grail, but through his own sufferings he had learned pity for
all pain and poverty. Once more he stood beside the leper at his castle
gate, but this time he stooped to share with him his crust and wooden
bowl of water.

Then it happened on the stage just as was told in the poem.

A light shone round about the place, and the crouching leper stood up.
The old ragged mantle dropped off, and there in a long garment almost
dazzling in its whiteness, stood a figure--

"Shining and tall, and fair, and straight
As the pillar that stood by the Beautiful gate."

They could not see the face, it was turned aside; but the golden hair
was like a glory, and the uplifted arms held something high in air that
gleamed like a burnished star, as all the lights in the room were turned
full upon it, for a little space. It was a golden cup. Then the
voice again:

"In many climes without avail
Thou hast spent thy life for the Holy Grail.
Behold it is here--this cup, which thou
Didst fill at the streamlet for me but now.
The holy supper is kept indeed
In whatso we share with another's need."

It was an old story to most of the audience, worn threadbare by many
readings, but with these living