, when the Captain, whom his daughter treated most
respectfully, ceased prattling about himself and his adventures, Pen
tried to engage the Fotheringay in conversation about poetry and about
her profession. He asked her what she thought of Ophelia's madness, and
whether she was in love with Hamlet or not? "In love with such a little
ojous wretch as that stunted manager of a Bingley?" She bristled with
indignation at the thought. Pen explained it was not of her he spoke,
but of Ophelia of the play. "Oh, indeed; if no offence was meant, none
was taken: but as for Bingley, indeed, she did not value him--not that
glass of punch." Pen next tried her on Kotzebue. "Kotzebue? who was
he?"--"The author of the play in which she had been performing so
admirably." "She did not know that--the man's name at the beginning
of the book was Thompson," she said. Pen laughed at her adorable
simplicity. He told her of the melancholy fate of the author of the
play, and how Sand had killed him. It was for the first time in her life
that Miss Costigan had ever heard of Mr. Kotzebue's existence, but she
looked as if she was very much interested, and her sympathy sufficed for
honest Pen.

And in the midst of this simple conversation, the hour and a quarter
which poor Pen could afford to allow himself, passed away only too
quickly; and he had taken leave, he was gone, and away on his rapid road
homewards on the back of Rebecca. She was called upon to show her mettle
in the three journeys which she made that day.

"What was that he was talking about, the madness of Hamlet, and the
theory of the great German critic on the subject?" Emily asked of her
father.

"'Deed then I don't know, Milly dear," answered the Captain. "We'll ask
Bows when he comes."

"Anyhow, he's a nice, fair-spoken pretty young man," the lady said: "how
many tickets did he take of you?"

"Faith, then, he took six, and gev me two guineas, Milly," the Captain
said. "I suppose them young chaps is not too flush of coin."

"He's full of book-learning," Miss Fotheringay continued. "Kotzebue! He,
he, what a droll name indeed, now; and the poor fellow killed by Sand,
too! Did ye ever hear such a thing? I'll ask Bows about it, papa, dear."

"A queer death, sure enough," ejaculated the Captain, and changed
the painful theme. "'Tis an elegant mare the young gentleman rides,"
Costigan went on to say; "and a grand breakfast, intirely, that young
Mister Foker gave us."

"He's good f