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Rh just as, Grandy dear, when it is over, and we two are alone together, all my feeling is for you,—at least (hanging her head) it used to be; but lately, somehow, I am ashamed to think how I have been feeling for myself more than for you. Is it—is it that I am growing selfish? as Mr. Mayor said. Oh, no! Now we are here,—not in those noisy towns,—not in the inns and on the highways; now here, here, I do feel again for you,—all for you!"

"You are my little angel, you are," said Waife, tremulously. "Selfish! you! a good joke that! Now you see, I am not what is called Demonstrative,—a long word, Sophy, which means, that I don't show to you always how fond I am of you; and, indeed," he added ingenuously, "I am not always aware of it myself. I like acting,—I like the applause, and the lights, and the excitement, and the illusion,—the make-belief of the whole thing: it takes me out of memory and thought; it is a world that has neither past, present, nor future, an interlude in time,-an escape from space. I suppose it is the same with poets when they are making verses. Yes, I like all this; and, when I think of it, I forget you too much. And I never observed, Heaven forgive me! that you were pale and drooping till it was pointed out to me. Well, take away your arms. Let us consult! As soon as you get quite, quite well, how shall we live? what shall we do? You are as wise as a little woman, and such a careful, prudent housekeeper; and I'm such a harumscarum old fellow, without a sound idea in my head. What shall we do if we give up acting altogether?"

"Give up acting altogether, when you like it so! No, no. I will like it too, Grandy. But—but—" she stopped short, afraid to imply blame or to give pain.

"But what? let us make clean breasts, one to the other; tell truth, and shame the Father of Lies."

"Tell truth," said Sophy, lifting up to him her pure eyes with such heavenly, loving kindness that, if the words did imply reproof, the eyes stole it away. "Could we but manage to tell truth off the stage, I should not dislike acting! Oh, Grandfather, when that kind gentleman and his lady and those merry children come up and speak to us, don't you feel ready to creep into the earth?—I do. Are we telling truth? are we living truth? one name to-day, another name to morrow? I should not mind acting on a stage or in a room, for the time, but always acting, always,—we ourselves 'make beliefs!' Grandfather, must that be? They don't do it; I mean by they, all who are good and