The committee on plays was in session at the home of Mrs. Doctor Jones. During the first fifteen minutes of the meeting its members had annihilated the works of the poets and dramatists up to the reign of Queen Elizabeth.

"We really ought to give something from Shakespeare," Mrs. Tweedie was saying.

"What do folks in Manville know about him?" asked Mrs. Stout. "I say we ought to give somethin' they can understand."

"My dear Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, "that is just the reason why we ought to give something from his works. The people of Manville ought to know something of one of the world's greatest poets. If they do not, it is clearly the duty of the Morning Glory Club to assist in their enlightenment."

"Well, perhaps we can get 'em to come once," retorted Mrs. Stout, "but you can be sure they won't get caught a second time. I think that Shakespeare's too high-toned for folks 'round here, but go ahead if you want to, I've had my say." Mrs. Stout always had her say, and some of the ladies, particularly Mrs. Tweedie, wished that she did not have it quite so often.

"Of course," said Miss Sawyer, "we could not dream of attempting the production of the whole of one of Shakespeare's plays, but there are many beautiful scenes that we could undertake and be reasonably sure of success."

"That's a good idea; why not give several scenes instead of one play?" suggested Mrs. Jones.

"Good!" exclaimed Fanny Tweedie. "Then we could all have star parts."

"Fanny," rebuked Mrs. Tweedie, "our personal ambition must not be considered, and I sincerely hope that a spirit of self-sacrifice will be manifested, if necessary, when we come to the assignment of parts. Your idea, Mrs. Jones, is to give scenes from different plays?"

"Yes," Mrs. Jones replied; "then if one or more of the scenes were unsuccessful, we could redeem ourselves with the others."

"True," said Mrs. Tweedie, wisely, and then turning to Miss Sawyer, asked: "What scenes would you suggest?"

As Miss Sawyer was considered the best read woman in Manville, she was always the first to be appealed to for advice in regard to such matters, though her shyness—often mistaken for modesty—made her opinion difficult to obtain.

"During the past week," she began, "I have been looking over my Shakespeare (Mrs. Tweedie's suggestion) and have found several scenes that we might consider. I would suggest first the trial scene from the 'Merchant of Venice,' and—"

"That would be great!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Mrs. Stout could be the judge—I'd like to play Portia myself—and ma would be a lovely Shylock."

"Fanny," said Mrs. Tweedie, severely, "there are others to be consulted in this matter." She was provoked, not so much by Fanny's suggestion, as by the titter it caused.

"Why, ma," Fanny continued, "you know that we talked it over at home, and—" a warning glance from her mother told Fanny that she had said too much, and she suddenly subsided. At a word from Mrs. Tweedie, Miss Sawyer continued:

"There is the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' and in 'As You Like It' there are many beautiful—"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, "let's give the scene in the forest where Rosalind, or somebody, hangs valentines on the bushes—it's lovely."

"Very beautiful," murmured Miss Sawyer. "And in the 'Merry Wives of Windsor' there are many amusing—"

"I didn't know that Shakespeare was funny," blurted Mrs. Stout.

"Not funny," corrected Mrs. Tweedie, "amusing; his wit is of the keenest."

"Same thing, ain't it?" said Mrs. Stout. "Ain't there a play about the taming of somebody?"

"The 'Taming of the Shrew,'" Miss Sawyer responded, quickly.

"That's it. Why wouldn't that be a good play for us?" laughed Mrs. Stout.

"I don't like the name," Mrs. Tweedie replied. "It savours too much of the domineering of the other sex."

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "we might change the name."

"Change the name!" exclaimed the horrified ladies.

"Change the name of one of Shakespeare's plays!" groaned Miss Sawyer.

"What name, may I ask," said Mrs. Tweedie, majestically, "would you substitute?"

Mrs. Stout was thoroughly enjoying the discomfiture that she had caused, and was laughing in a most provoking manner.

"We might call it the 'Un-taming of the Shrews,'" she replied, and then added: "See here, I don't see any terrible harm in changin' the name of anything. You changed yours, Mis' Tweedie, didn't you?"

"No," snapped Mrs. Tweedie, "I added a name to the one I already had." Mrs. Tweedie always wrote her name Aurelia Scraggs Tweedie. (Scraggs was a famous actor—three times removed—the moves, hasty ones, being from Providence Plantation to Boston, from Boston to Salem, and from there to Portsmouth, with the king's officers close upon his heels at every step.)

"Oh, excuse me," said Mrs. Stout, with exaggerated politeness, "but the rest of us did change our names when we was married."

"Mrs. Stout," replied Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at the promoter of the disturbance, "the business before us is not of a humourous nature."

"Good land!" retorted Mrs. Stout. "If we've got to wear funeral faces every time we get together we'd better bust up now."

"Humour and wit," said Mrs. Tweedie, icily, "have their place, but the changing of the name of a classic would be sacrilege." For the time being Mrs. Stout had had enough fun, and permitted Mrs. Tweedie to have the last word.

"Has any one thought of the old comedies, so-called, of Sheridan and Goldsmith?" asked Mrs. Jones. "There's 'She Stoops to Conquer,' and—"

"That would never do," said Mrs. Stout, breaking forth again; "we wouldn't 'stoop to conquer,' not even for a classic," and for once Mrs. Tweedie agreed with her.

"The title certainly is not appropriate for a woman's club," she remarked, decidedly.

"The 'School for Scandal' is a famous play," Miss Sawyer ventured to suggest, but the only approval her suggestion received was another outburst of laughter from Mrs. Stout.

"If we should give that play," she gurgled, "we'd be sure to make a hit, it would be so natural."

Fortunately for the future welfare of the Morning Glory Club the telephone bell rang at that moment, and Mrs. Jones hastened to answer its summons.

The telephone was in the hall, only a step or two from the room in which the ladies were sitting, and as Mrs. Jones went out she left the door ajar. Silence fell over the group—not because that they wished to hear, of course, but in order that Mrs. Jones might not be annoyed. A message to a doctor's home might be so important, you know.

"Diphtheria?" they heard her say. "Where?—At school—The Clark children?—What?—Oh, Miss who?—Miss Wallace?—Sent the children home?—Yes.—Will you be home to lunch?—What?—Will there be any?—Of course—Good-bye."

"Diphtheria!" exclaimed the ladies when they were sure that Mrs. Jones was through, and a look of anxiety spread over the faces of those who had children.

"Did you hear?" asked Mrs. Jones, as she reËntered the room. "Miss Wallace suspected that one of the Clark girls had diphtheria, so she sent both of them home. The doctor is at the Clarks' now, and says that Miss Wallace was right, and that the school will have to be closed."

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, "just think of havin' them three boys of mine runnin' wild for three or four weeks, to say nothin' of the danger of their bein' sick."

"What we have heard is very distressing," said Mrs. Tweedie, "but let us not be unnerved until we learn all of the particulars. In the meantime would it not be wise to continue with our work? Miss Sawyer, are you familiar with Ibsen's plays?" Thus did Mrs. Tweedie throw off diphtheria for Ibsen.

"I have read 'A Doll's House,'" replied Miss Sawyer, blushing.

"'A Doll's House,'" queried Mrs. Stout, "is it a play for children?"

"By no means," snapped Mrs. Tweedie.

"Oh, ma!" Fanny exclaimed, "I don't know anything about Ibsen, but do you remember 'The Lady of Lyons?' We saw it in Boston. It was about the loveliest girl—a princess—who married a labourer's son disguised as a prince, and when she found it out he went into the army, and then came home as a general or something, and they made up."

"Yes, I remember," replied Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me see, who wrote it?"

"Sir Edward Lytton Bulwer," said Miss Sawyer, promptly. "It's a beautiful play containing some of the sweetest love-scenes imaginable."

"Has it got anything to do with a circus?" asked Mrs. Stout, innocently, having in mind, no doubt, the lady in a cage of lions with the "Ding-a-ling Circus," that came to Manville every year.

"Circus, indeed not!" said Mrs. Jones. "Lyons is the name of a city in France."

"Oh," was all that Mrs. Stout had to say in reply. She was gaining knowledge rapidly, and realized it. Only the night before she had said to her husband that "if the club don't go up I expect to know somethin' sometime."

Formal suggestions and discussion gave way to general chatting. They were not getting ahead at all, and Mrs. Tweedie became annoyed. As she sat watching them, a new and alarming thought came suddenly into her mind, and a look of consternation spread over her face.

"Ladies!" she exclaimed, in a choking voice, "it has just occurred to me that in every play that has been suggested there are MALE CHARACTERS!" The silence that followed Mrs. Tweedie's statement was cruelly disheartening. What a horrible thought, such a dejected-looking gathering of women was never seen before.

"Is it possible!" gasped Mrs. Jones, who was the first to recover from the shock. "Is it possible that in every classic there is a man?"

"Men wrote most of 'em, didn't they?" asked Mrs. Stout.

Mrs. Tweedie's eyes snapped angrily.

"That is not a fair question," she said. "What if they did write the classics? Doubtless you can guess why."

"Most prob'ly," replied Mrs. Stout, in a tone that was meek for her, "it was because the women folks had to spend their time washin' dishes and 'tendin' babies, and didn't have time even to try."

"Exactly," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"Was there a Mis' Shakespeare?" queried Mrs. Stout. No one seemed to know.

"Well," said Mrs. Jones, "if we can't find a play without a man in it, what shall we do?"

"Play the part of men ourselves," replied Fanny Tweedie, boldly.

"Fanny!" exclaimed her mother.

"A good idea," said Mrs. Stout. "I guess that most of us women know enough about men to make believe."

"That's so," added Mrs. Jones, "such things have been done, I don't see what harm it would do."

"But the costuming," said Mrs. Tweedie, "how would that be arranged?"

"Put a sign, 'this is a man,' on the ones that have men's parts," suggested Mrs. Stout. A ring at the door quickly stopped the titter caused by Mrs. Stout's suggestion. Mrs. Jones excused herself and left the room. Again perfect silence reigned.

"Mother wants the doctor right off," they heard a boy say. "The baby's broke out all over."

"I'll tell him just as soon as he returns," replied Mrs. Jones.

"Measles," said Mrs. Stout in a loud whisper, "what a time we are havin'."

"It was Sammy Dobbins," explained Mrs. Jones, when she returned. "That's the way I have to run all day; first the telephone, and then the door-bell."

"It must be very trying," said Mrs. Tweedie, sympathetically.

"Here it is, here it is!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout, explosively, as she waved a book that she had taken from a table a moment before. "Listen: 'Vanity Fair, a Novel without a Hero,'" she read. "Ain't there a play by that name?"

"Nonsense," sniffed Mrs. Tweedie. "It's full of men, and such men—"

"And a woman," added Mrs. Jones.

"Such a woman," said Miss Sawyer. Mrs. Stout closed the book, and replaced it. She was squelched.

"We are getting on very slowly," sighed Mrs. Tweedie. "Let me suggest a programme." No one objected. "What would you say to the trial scene from the 'Merchant of Venice,' the balcony scene from 'Romeo and Juliet,' a scene from the 'Lady of Lyons,' and a one-act play written by our Miss Sawyer, entitled 'Yellow Roses'?"

There was much to be said, and the discussion began anew, but Mrs. Tweedie was determined to win, and win she did.

"The smell of medicine in a doctor's house," remarked Mrs. Stout, as she walked toward home with Mrs. Thornton, "always makes me feel as though my last day had come."