t herself could choose.
Now, though a good rider, Kate was a remarkably careless whip; and
rattling through the town, the ponies shied at something, or nothing,
swerved into a cart, and upset the tittuppy little trap in a moment. The
immediate result to the fair driver was a sprained ankle, contused face,
and fast blackening eye. Any amount of pain she would have cheerfully
endured sooner than give up her evening's excitement; but the unfortunate
eye swelled, and got blacker and blacker, and nothing could be done. Her
despair was communicated to the whole corps, till Mr. Barton suggested a
substitute in Bluebell. It was carried _nem. con._, with the chilling
consent of Mrs. Barrington, who, though she would not hear of Kate
appearing thus disfigured, had tried in vain to persuade Lord Bromley to
put off the play. But he maintained it was now "too late for
postponement; Barton had said the girl could act; and Kate deserved the
disappointment, for she had no business to have upset herself," etc. In
the meantime Mr. Barton had carried off Bluebell for a severe rehearsal.
The play was "The Loan of a Lover," and as Peter Spyk he was interested
in his Gertrude. Sir Robert also, as Captain Amesfort, threw considerably
more animus into his scene since the change of heroines.

Bluebell had tea with her pupils as usual, and joined in the _dramatis
persona_ in the green room at nine. The company was arriving. The front
benches were soon filled with ladies, while the men stood about in the
doorway, or looked over their heads.

Among the latter was Harry Dutton. He had come without notice, too late
to join the party at dinner, and, thinking the whole thing rather a bore,
scarcely glanced at the stage.

"Mynheer Swizel! Mynheer Swizel!" Dutton started as if he had been shot.
In a peasant's dress, and running on to the stage greeted by a round of
applause, he recognises Bluebell! Here, at Bromley Towers!

Transfixed to the spot, his moonstruck gaze rivetted on the actors,
people spoke to him, and he never heard. Conjecture, wonder, doubts of
his own sanity, were whirling his brain. How did she get _here_, of all
places in the world? With whom?--and under what name? Heavens, if she
should suddenly perceive him, and stop short or scream! He moved behind a
pillar, where he could observe unseen. Peter Spyk was singing:--

"To-morrow will be market-day,
The streets all thronged with lasses gay;
And from a crowd so great, no do