irst for nothing: I can but try. If
I fail, I fail. But there is nothing here to work upon. There is no
knowledge of art and no love for it. I must have more elbow-room.'

Elbow-room is indispensable to a violinist, and Barbara was compelled
to agree to her lover's programme. She was a brave little creature, and
though she was as sorry to part with her lover as even he could wish
her, she accepted the inevitable. Christopher finished his quarter's
instructions where he had pupils, declined such few further engagements
as offered themselves, packed up his belongings in a tin box somewhat
too large for them, said farewell, and went his way to London. Barbara
went with him by coach into the great neighbouring town five miles away,
and saw him off by train. The times and the place where these two were
bred were alike primitive, and this farewell journey had no shadow of
impropriety in it even for the most censorious eyes. The coach did not
return till evening, and little Barbara had three or four hours on her
hands. She walked disconsolately from the station, with her veil down to
hide the few tears which forced themselves past her resolution. Scarcely
noticing whither her feet carried her, she had wandered into a retired
and dusty street which bore plainly upon its surface the unwritten but
readable announcement of genteel poverty, and there in a parlour window
was a largeish placard bearing this legend: 'Mrs. Lochleven Cameron
prepares pupils for the Stage. Enquire Within.' A sudden inspiration
entered Barbara's heart. She had seen the inside of a theatre once or
twice, and she thought herself prettier and knew she could sing
better than the singing chambermaid whom everybody had so applauded.
Christopher had often defended the stage from the aspersions cast upon
it by the ignorant prejudices of country-bred folk, who looked on the
theatre as a device of the Arch-Enemy and an avenue to his halls of
darkness. In pious varyings from church she had heard the Eeverend Paul
Screed compare the theatrical pit with that other pit of which the Enemy
holds perpetual lease, but she respected Christopher's opinion more
highly than that of the Eeverend Paul. There was yet a sense of
wickedness in the thought which assailed her, and her heart beat
violently as she ascended the steps which led to Mrs. Lochleven
Cameron's door. She dried her eyes, summoned her resolution, and rang
the bell. A pale-faced lady of stately carriage opened the