the party at dinner. In the evening all (Fairthorn excepted) draw round the fire. Waife is entreated by George to read a scene or two out of Shakspeare. He selects the latter portion of "King Lear." Darrell, who never was a play-goer, and who, to his shame be it said, had looked very little into Shakspeare since he left college, was wonder-struck. He himself read beautifully—all great orators, I suppose, do; but his talent was not mimetic—not imitative; he could never have been an actor—never thrown himself into existences wholly alien or repugnant to his own. Grave or gay, stern or kind, Guy Darrell, though often varying, was always Guy Darrell.
But when Waife was once in that magical world of art. Waife was gone—nothing left of him; the part lived as if there were no actor to it; it was the Fool—it was Lear.
For the first time Darrell felt what a grand creature a grand actor really is—what a luminous, unconscious critic bringing out beauties of which no commentator ever dreamed! When the reading was over, talk still flowed; the gloomy old hearth knew the charm of a home-circle. All started incredulous when the clock struck one.—Just as Sophy was passing to the door, out from behind the window-curtain glared a vindictive, spiteful eye. Fairthorn made a mow at her, which 'tis a pity Waife did not see—it would have been a study for Caliban. She uttered a little scream.
"What's the matter?" cried the host.
"Nothing," said she, quickly—far too generous to betray the hostile oddities of the musician. "Sir Isaac was in my way—that was all."
"Another evening we must have Fairthorn's flute," said Darrell. "What a pity he was not here to-night!—he would have enjoyed such reading—no one more."
Said Mrs. Morley, "He was here once or twice during the evening; but he vanished!"
"Vanishing seems his forte," said George.
Darrell looked annoyed. It was his peculiarity to resent any jest, however slight, against an absent friend; and at that moment his heart was perhaps more warmed toward Dick Fairthorn than to any man living. If he had not determined to be as amiable and mild toward his guests as his nature would permit, probably George might have had the flip of a sarcasm which would have tingled for a month. But as it was, Darrell contented himself with saying, gravely,
"No, George; Fairthorn's foible is vanishing—his forte is fidelity. If my fortune were to vanish, Fairthorn would never
