h, and a widow, I believe,--at least, her letters come to the
bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris."

Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stoc-mar recalled
him to caution and self-possession.

"Tell us more about her, Trover; all that you know, in fact."

"Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the family of
a certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently exercises no small
influence amongst them; at least, the tradespeople tell me they are
referred to her for everything, and all the letters we get about
transfers of stock, and suchlike, are in _her_ hand."

"You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?" asked Stocmar.

"Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer with her
about her daughter, whom she had some intention of placing at the
Conservatoire at Milan, as a preparation for the stage, and some one had
told her that I knew all the details necessary."

"Have you seen the girl?"

"Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, poor thing; but
she has a voice like Sontag's, just a sort of mellow, rich tone they run
upon just now, and with a compass equal to Malibran's."

"And her look?"

"Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother says nigh sixteen,
but I should guess her at under fifteen certainly. I thought at once
of writing to _you_, Stocmar, when I saw her. I know how eagerly _you_
snatch up such a chance as this; but as you were on your way out, I
deferred to mention her till you came."

"And what counsel did you give her, Trover?"

"I said, 'By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to women, in our
age, what the career of politics is to men, the only royal road to high
ambition.'"

"That is what I tell all my young prime donne," said Stocmar. "I never
fail to remind them that any debutante may live to be a duchess."

"And they believe you?" asked Paten.

"To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere of credulity about
a theatre that makes one credit anything, except what is palpably true.
Every manager fancies he is making a fortune; every tenor imagines he is
to marry a princess; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes
in the time when a breathless audience will be listening to _his_
'solo.'"

"I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then," exclaimed Paten.
"I should certainly like to imbibe some of this sanguine spirit."

"You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxicated with such
light ti