Scene i, Act IV., of the "Merchant of Venice" was on for rehearsal and mutilation at the home of Mrs. Tweedie by a cast whose performance assured a treat for the people of Manville.

Early that morning Mrs. Tweedie, having in mind the domestic friction which had been displayed at the first meeting of the club, and desiring to prevent the possibility of its recurrence, had sent her husband on a long errand, given Dora permission to visit a cousin, and urged Tommy to spend the day in the woods.

When the hour appointed for the rehearsal came, Miss Sawyer—at a previous meeting appointed stage-directress—was bustling about arranging chairs and table in an effort to make Mrs. Tweedie's parlour resemble a court of justice in Venice. When she had completed her work, the room looked as though house-cleaning was in progress. While this was being done, the ladies who had parts in the scene huddled in the front hall, and chatted in subdued tones. Anticipatory fear was already hovering over them.

"I am ready, ladies," announced Miss Sawyer. The hearts of the amateur actresses beat faster as they entered the parlour and gazed upon the arrangement of the furniture.

"That," Miss Sawyer began to explain as she pointed to a large chair flanked on each side by two smaller ones, "is where the Duke and Magnificoes sit, and these chairs and tables down here and those on either side are to be used by the other characters." If the scene was set and played as arranged by Miss Sawyer it would resemble a minstrel circle with the Duke as interlocutor, and Shylock and Antonio for "bones" and "tambo."

"Where do we come in?" asked Mrs. Jones, timidly.

"When you've got something to say," said Mrs. Stout, before Miss Sawyer had time to reply.

"We will only use one entrance," explained Miss Sawyer, when the laugh that Mrs. Stout caused had subsided. "It will be much easier to remember, and accordingly will prevent confusion. And that," she said, waving her hand toward one side of the room, "is where the audience is supposed to be. Now if the cast will please step back into the hall we will begin."

The "cast" solemnly filed from the room, and Miss Sawyer, book in hand, took up a position in the centre of the stage.

"'Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio, and others,'" she read.

"Who's goin' to be the 'others'?" called Mrs. Stout. Miss Sawyer made no reply, and the rest did not laugh because each of them, excepting Mrs. Tweedie and Mrs. Stout, when the name of the character she was to play was read, had a nervous chill. Miss Sawyer waited patiently for some one to enter, but no one stirred.

"Who goes in first?" asked Mrs. Blake.

"The Duke," replied Miss Sawyer.

"Goodness!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Have I got to be the first one?"

"Certainly; come right in and act as naturally as you can," said Miss Sawyer, with a patronizing air of encouragement.

Mrs. Stout entered, followed by her "soot," as she called it, and stood staring at the open book before her—dumb.

"Well?" Miss Sawyer looked up inquiringly.

"Shall I say what I've got to now?" asked Mrs. Stout.

"Yes, but face the audience first." Strange to relate, Mrs. Stout seemed to be confused. She turned, but the wrong way. "No, no," Miss Sawyer corrected, nervously, "this way."

"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, as she faced in the right direction and began to read.

"It's your turn, Mrs. Blake," prompted Miss Sawyer, when Mrs. Stout had read her first line. (One would have thought that they were playing croquet.)

"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, all in a flutter, "is it?" and then when she had found the place, read, "'Ready, so please your grace.'"

And so the rehearsal of the famous scene hitched along until the approach of Shylock was announced. Mrs. Tweedie, who was to play the part, was ready, and entered at precisely the right moment with her accustomed assurance. And when Mrs. Stout had waded and stumbled through the long speech of the Duke to Shylock, Mrs. Tweedie, scorning to look at her book, began her lines. She had seen a famous actor play the part, and tried to imitate him, but failed horribly.

Harmony prevailed until Mrs. Jones balked at a word in the text that a lady of the Morning Glory Club would not use—outside of her family circle.

"I cannot, will not, use such a word!" she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes.

"But, my dear Mrs. Jones," entreated Mrs. Tweedie, "this is the work of Shakespeare, a classic."

"Umph!" grunted Mrs. Stout, who had discovered the word in question. "If such words are all right here, then our men folks are quoting the classics and the Bible most of the time."

"My dear ladies," interposed Miss Sawyer, "you do not seem to understand the sense in which the word is used; your view-point is incorrect."

"Well," said Mrs. Stout, "I know that when my husband quotes the classics folks most always see the point."

"Oh, bother!" interrupted Fanny Tweedie. "Let's skip the naughty words; I'm just dying to have this rehearsal over with."

"Fanny," reproved Mrs. Tweedie. "Do proceed, Mrs. Jones, I am sure that as we go on we will find a way out of the difficulty."

Mrs. Jones went on with her part, mouthing her lines meaninglessly.

"'The quality of Mercy is not strain'd—'" read Fanny Tweedie, in a strained voice.

Mrs. Stout interrupted her by innocently observing: "I wonder why Shakespeare used so many old sayin's."

Mrs. Tweedie and Miss Sawyer turned pale; Fanny Tweedie giggled unreproved, and then another of those painful silences prevailed.

"Mrs. Stout," said Mrs. Tweedie, when she could control herself, "we have been quoting Shakespeare for over three hundred years; he never quoted anybody."

"My!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout; then she laughingly added: "Perhaps you and Miss Sawyer have been quotin' him for three hundred years, but I'm mighty sure that I ain't."

"When I said we I meant the world," replied Mrs. Tweedie, haughtily.

"Oh," said Mrs. Stout, and the incident was closed.

"What an unfeeling wretch that Shylock was," observed Mrs. Blake, after the rehearsal had continued without interruption for several minutes. "It makes me shudder to think of such a man. How are you going to dress for the part, Mrs. Tweedie?"

"I shall endeavour to dress appropriately, and as becomes my sex," replied Mrs. Tweedie.

"Ladies, let us not waste valuable time talking dress," said Miss Sawyer, impatiently.

"What's the harm, I'd like to know; who's got a better right to talk about dress than us women?" asked Mrs. Stout, pertly.

"But is the subject appropriate at this time?" retorted Miss Sawyer.

"It's always appropriate," replied Mrs. Stout. "A woman can't be happy unless she's well dressed, or thinks she is, any more'n a man can be good-natured on an empty stomach."

"Which proves the inferiority of the other sex," said Mrs. Tweedie.

"Ump! I don't know about that," replied Mrs. Stout. "We make just as big fools of ourselves about dressin' as the men do about eatin' and drinkin'."

"Indeed, and is it not commendable to appear as well as one can?" queried Mrs. Tweedie.

"That's all right," retorted Mrs. Stout, "if it ended there, but it don't. Most women folks would wear a smile, a pink ribbon, and rings on their toes if the fashion papers said it was proper, and then wonder why the men stared at 'em."

"Because some women err in such matters, are we—" remonstrated Mrs. Jones, mildly, but Fanny interrupted her.

"Oh," she exclaimed, in her explosive manner, "I'm in the greatest luck! Miss Wallace is going to let me take her graduation cap and gown. I've tried them on and the effect is just killing."

"You are very fortunate, and how is Miss Wallace?" asked Mrs. Blake.

"Tired out," replied Fanny, "running around calling on sick children."

"I have heard," said Mrs. Darling, "that Miss Wallace spent an evening at the store a few days ago."

"There ain't a word of truth in it!" hotly replied Mrs. Stout. "She went there just for a minute to get Doctor Jones and Mr. Blake the night little Bessie Duncan died. The way such lies travel beats automobiles."

"Oh, of course, I didn't believe it for one moment," simpered Mrs. Darling, "and I wouldn't say a word to injure her for worlds—she's such a lovely girl."

"Girl," said Mrs. Thornton, "she's every day of twenty-five."

"Why!" exclaimed Mrs. Blake, "I wouldn't have believed it."

"Well," drawled Mrs. Stout, "it's a long time since any of us, 'ceptin' Fanny, was that age."

"Mrs. Stout will speak the truth at all times," remarked Mrs. Tweedie, sarcastically.

"Somebody's got to tell it," retorted Mrs. Stout.

"Pardon me, ladies," said Miss Sawyer, "but we have drifted away from the work of the great poet."

"Poet!" exclaimed Mrs. Stout. "Was Shakespeare a poet?"

"Certainly," replied Miss Sawyer, impatiently.

"And is this play poetry?"

"Yes, much of it."

"Well!" Mrs. Stout's astonishment equalled her ignorance.

"Do you object greatly to poetry?" asked Mrs. Tweedie.

"Oh, no," replied Mrs. Stout, "poetry is good, like angel-cake, but you can't live on it."

The laugh that followed cleared the atmosphere, and the rehearsal continued. As it progressed the ladies gained courage, and declaimed their lines in what they thought was a professional manner. Miss Sawyer was pleased and beamed on them encouragingly, suggesting now and then a gesture, inflection, or "business," but, despite her efforts to keep them constantly on the dramatic road, digressions were frequent.

"I wonder if Miss Wallace cares anything about Will Flint," said Mrs. Thornton to Mrs. Darling, when they were alone in a corner of the hall waiting their "turn."

"I am sure that I don't know, but I have heard that he was very fond of her, and that he walks to and from school with her almost every day."

"Really! and hasn't he anything else to do?"

"I don't know, I'm sure. Of course you know that there are mysterious, disagreeable stories about him, and that for a minister's son he is—er—well—"

"I understand perfectly."

"'There's a skeleton—' you know the saying, and—" Just then the gossipers heard the rustle of skirts in the hall above, followed by the sound of a door being closed. They looked at each other in dismay.

"Do you suppose?" gasped Mrs. Darling, in alarm.

"I'll find out," replied Mrs. Thornton, as she went to the parlour door and beckoned to Fanny Tweedie.

"What do you want?" asked Fanny, as she came into the hall.

"Sh! Is—er—Miss Wallace at home?" whispered Mrs. Darling.

"Yes," Fanny replied. "Why?"

"Oh!" gasped the culprits.

"What will she think of us?" groaned Mrs. Darling.

"What are you folks whisperin' about?" asked Mrs. Stout at that moment as she came out into the hall and joined them. Fanny laughed, she had guessed the cause of Mrs. Darling's and Mrs. Thornton's discomfiture, and enjoyed the situation.

"Well," whispered Mrs. Thornton in reply to Mrs. Stout's question, "we, Dolly and I, were talking out here, and we happened to mention—we spoke of Will Flint and Miss Wallace, and we think that perhaps she—"

"Heard," interrupted Mrs. Darling.

"Good 'nough for you," said Mrs. Stout.

"Sh! But we didn't say a word that she could object to," continued Mrs. Thornton.

"At least about her," added Mrs. Darling.

"But," said Mrs. Stout, "you did say somethin' about Willie Flint that—"

"Hush!" exclaimed the guilty ones.

"I thought so," said Mrs. Stout, lowering her voice. "But let me tell you that I believe that Willie Flint ain't half as bad as some folks try to make him out to be, and as for he and Miss Wallace—"

"It is your turn, Mrs. Darling," called Miss Sawyer from the parlour. The whisperers returned to their work, but in the minds of two of them were many misgivings.

"Serves her right," whispered Mrs. Darling to Mrs. Thornton at the first opportunity.

"Indeed it does," was her friend's reply.

The aspirants for histrionic laurels rehearsed the scene twice, and then sat down to talk it over.

"What I can't understand," said Mrs. Blake, "is why Bassanio and Gratiano didn't know Portia and Nerissa, with whom they were in love."

"Portia and Nerissa were dressed as men," replied Mrs. Jones.

"And supposed to be miles away," added Miss Sawyer.

"Well," Mrs. Stout began, "all I've got to say is that most men know their best girls when they see 'em, no matter what they've got on. Goodness!" she exclaimed as she glanced at the clock. "If it ain't twelve o'clock! My Peter's dinner will be late, and all on account of William Shakespeare."