re fell back upon the pleasure to be expected from
the play itself, and when the curtain rose, I, for one, was resigned
to the absence of him we had come partly in quest of.

No sooner had Miss Warren come upon the stage, in her favourite part
of Fanny in "The Clandestine Marriage," revived for the occasion, than
I knew her as Madge Faringfield. I bent forward, with staring eyes and
gaping mouth; if I uttered any exclamation it was drowned in the sound
of the hand-clapping that greeted her. While she curtseyed and
pleasantly smiled, in response to this welcome, I turned abruptly to
Phil, my eyes betokening my recognition. He nodded, without a word or
any other movement, and continued to look at her, his face wearing a
half-smiling expression of gentle gladness.

I knew, from my old acquaintance with him, that he was under so great
emotion that he dared not speak. It was, indeed, a cessation of secret
anxiety to him, a joy such as only a constant lover can understand, to
know that she was alive, well, with means of livelihood, and beautiful
as ever. Though she was now thirty-one, she looked, on the stage, not
a day older than upon that sad night when he had thrown her from him,
six years and more before--nay, than upon that day well-nigh eleven
years before, when he had bade her farewell to go upon his first
campaign. She was still as slender, still had the same girlish air and
manner.

Till the curtain fell upon the act, we sat without audible remark,
delighting our eyes with her looks, our ears with her voice, our
hearts (and paining them at the same time) with the memories her every
movement, every accent, called up.

"How shall we see her?" were Phil's first words at the end of the act.

"We may be allowed to send our names, and see her in the greenroom,"
said I. "Or perhaps you know somebody who can take us there without
any preliminaries."

"Nay," returned Philip, after a moment's thought, "there will be other
people there. I shouldn't like strangers to see--you understand. We
shall wait till the play is over, and then go to the door where the
players come out. 'Twill take her some time to dress for going
home--we can't miss her that way."

I sympathised with his feelings against making their meeting a scene
for the amusement of frivolous lookers-on, and we waited patiently
enough. Neither of us could have told, when the play was over, what
was the story it presented. Even Madge's speeches we heard with les