ter, but she remembered the last
paragraph, and thought it was quite affectionate enough. As for
Claudius, when he received it he was as much delighted as though it had
been six times as long and a hundred times more expansive. "Thanks,
dear, for your loving letter,"--that phrase alone acknowledged
everything, accepted everything, and sanctioned everything.

In the evening, as she had said in writing to the Doctor, she went with
Miss Skeat and sat in the front box of the theatre, which the great
actor had placed at her disposal. The play was _Othello_. Mr. Barker had
ascertained that she was going, and had accordingly procured himself a
seat in the front of the orchestra. He endeavoured to catch a look from
Margaret all through the first part of the performance, but she was too
entirely absorbed in the tragedy to notice him. At length, in the
interval before the last act, Mr. Barker took courage, and, leaving his
chair, threaded his way out of the lines of seats to the entrance. Then
he presented himself at the door of the Countess's box.

"May I come in for a little while?" he inquired with an affectation of
doubt and delicacy that was unnatural to him.

"Certainly," said Margaret indifferently, but smiling a little withal.

"I have ventured to bring you some _marrons glaces_," said Barker, when
he was seated, producing at the same time a neat _bonbonniere_ in the
shape of a turban. "I thought they would remind you of Baden. You used
to be very fond of them."

"Thanks," said she, "I am still." And she took one. The curtain rose,
and Barker was obliged to be silent, much against his will. Margaret
immediately became absorbed in the doings on the stage. She had
witnessed that terrible last act twenty times before, but she never
wearied of it. Neither would she have consented to see it acted by any
other than the great Italian. Whatever be the merits of the play, there
can be no question as to its supremacy of horror in the hands of
Salvini. To us of the latter half of this century it appears to stand
alone; it seems as if there could never have been such a scene or such
an actor in the history of the drama. Horrible--yes! beyond all
description, but, being horrible, of a depth of horror unrealised
before. Perhaps no one who has not lived in the East can understand
that such a character as Salvini's _Othello_ is a possible, living
reality. It is certain that American audiences, even while giving their
admiration, wit