Page:The Strand Magazine (Volume 4).djvu/488

 bust of Fechter is under a glass shade on the mantel-board. A screen of Sir Walter Scott's is noticeable.

The Alcove is the most delightful arrangement in miniature rooms conceivable. It was really a bit of spare landing space—now it is one of the prettiest corners in the whole house. It is of white enamel. As a specimen of artistic furnishing, this little alcove may be opened out as a perfect model. It won't let one get away. How cosy are the cushions under the canopy of the window—how quaint the oaken table and chairs, which are an exact model of those used by Shakespeare himself!

Over the mantelboard are many portraits, all of them autographed and accompanied by kindly messages: Nordica, Miss Julia Neilson—who married Miss Terry's brother Fred—Miss Mary Anderson, Sarasate, and Salvini. Signor Tosti has sent his photo. and surrounded it with words and music—"Good-bye, Summer, good-bye, goodbye!" Tosti, one day, specially sang this beautiful song for Miss Terry at a friend's house. Very shortly afterwards this pleasant memento came. There is an old picture of Mrs. Cowley, who wrote "The Belle's Stratagem." Where there are not books there are pictures, such as an admirable likeness of Roger Kemble, father of J. P. Kemble; Mrs. Siddons, Sarah Bernhardt, Forbes Robertson, and Miss Terry and Henry Irving in various characters. Fred Barnard, the artist, is well represented with etchings of Mr. Irving as Digby Grant in "The Two Roses." An original study as Hamlet is striking. There is also an excellent pencil sketch of Miss Terry as Portia, whilst Sidney L. Smith is responsible for Miss Terry as Beatrice.

A spinning-wheel is near the window.

"No, you are wrong," said Miss Terry; "that is not the one I used to sit down to as Marguerite in 'Faust.' I bought this in Nuremberg and meant to use it, but, believe me, I found that an old 'property' one looked much better on the stage."

Just then a tiny little piping note was heard. It was as sweet and as true as the note of a flute. It seemed to come from upstairs, and was apparently the gentle whistling of some old German air by an unknown and invisible personage. My inquisitive surprise delighted Miss Terry. She beckoned me. We went tip-toe up the stairs, and as I drew aside the amber silk curtains of the drawing-room, the whistle became louder and sweeter still. Ah, there was the culprit, caged up in the window!

"Prince—my bull-