imes of the church-bells proclaimed to the pale heavens the
majesty of prayer. Lily listened with a dreamy air; it all reminded her of
things:

"It's like the American engines," she said to the Three Graces, "that used
to ring their bells when they passed through Syracuse."

But the train rushed on, rushed on.... And they again began to talk shop,
as always: with, here and there, an excursion into the cost of food. The
Graces, just then, were unpacking their lunch; and Lily fetched her
traveling provisions from her bag in the corridor. There was a sound of
clattering plates from end to end of the train, in a mist of
tobacco-smoke. Lily rejoined the party very quickly, to avoid coming in
contact with the pros, and, waited on by Glass-Eye, attacked her meal and
broke her bread so heartily that the crusts flew to the ceiling. They
drank out of the same cup, took their meat in their hands, Lily saying
that fingers were made before forks. They chattered noisily, with the
time-honored jokes about apples and bananas. They made Glass-Eye talk a
lot of nonsense. Lily, flinging back her head, laughed full-throated, held
her sides.

"My!" said the Graces. "What a pity that we are separating! It would have
been so nice to travel together; one's never bored with you. What a
tomboy!"

"'K you!" said Lily, greatly flattered, with a stage curtsey.

Unfortunately, they would have to part at Warrington. The Graces were
going on to Glasgow, Lily was changing for Liverpool; a few moments more
and it was good-by, until chance....

At Lily's request, the Graces gave her a few last words of advice,
explained the system of the pass-book of the Artistes' Federation: the
sixpenny stamp to be stuck in the little square every week; the extra
stamp at each death of a member, for the benefit of the heirs. They talked
to her of the Friday meetings at Manchester, at which every artiste can
speak and see himself printed afterward in the London _Performer_.

"Good!" thought Lily. "I may have things to say. There will be news for
somebody!"

The Graces had a "three years' book," the professional _agenda_, with
nothing but Mondays marked on it for the weekly engagement: 8 January, 15
January and so on.

"Yes, I know," said Lily. "Mine's full for months ahead!"

They showed her, on theirs, the last pages containing portrait
advertisements of famous artistes: the Pawnees, Marjutti, Laurence.

"Oh, if I could get there one day!" thought Lily. "I