Next morning, accompanied by the two younger of her new acquaintances, Evarne sallied forth in search of a photographer's.

Carefully they studied various photographic show-cases of modest pretensions. She was reluctant to spend any of her limited capital in so seemingly frivolous a manner, and was anxious to expend as small a sum as possible on this preliminary. But here it was clearly possible to be "penny wise, pound foolish," and she recoiled at the prospect of being made to look anything like the self-conscious, staring, pictured females that the really low-priced artists of the camera set forth as attractive products of their prowess—the specimens best calculated to tickle the vanity of the passers-by and draw them into the toils of the producer of such representations.

At length they discovered one whose masterpieces seemed less terrible than those of his rivals. Margaret undertook the rÔle of spokesman.

"Only one copy of each position is required," she said, "but they must be delivered without delay, as the young lady is on the stage, and needs them immediately for professional purposes," and she went on to bargain about reduced prices.

After the operator's shutter had made its significant click two or three times, the party wended their way to the Strand, and Evarne had her name duly inscribed upon several agents' books. In some cases this privilege cost money, and she returned home horrified by the rapidity with which funds melted. True, Bertie Anderson had "stood" both girls their luncheon, but despite this, the day's output had been something alarming.

Everyone in the house continued to concern themselves over her welfare. Indeed, from the first hour of her arrival in London she had met with nothing but goodwill. Herein Heaven watched over her, for this general kindliness on the part of mankind at large was the best possible balm for her scorned and wounded affections. True, no care from others could really touch the injury inflicted by "the one," but it all served to help melt the ice that seemed gathered around her breast.

Her acquaintance with the merry, good-natured "Fun in the Hayfield" people proved a veritable salvation. Left to herself for any appreciable period, she weakly sank into a state of brooding despair, but save for the evening of the "photographer-hunting" day, she was in their society for practically the whole of the remainder of the week.

Mr. Cuthbert had offered to pass her into the music hall that night, but she declined the offer. She was tired, and shrank from the anticipated noise and glare. But once alone she regretted her decision. Memories of the past crowded thick upon her, with their train of regrets, hot indignation, bitter sorrow, and the thousand and one tearing passions that rendered thought unendurable. Solitude was—for the present at least—but a state of torture to be avoided at all costs. Distraction, company, variety was no longer a matter of choice, but an absolute necessity. She had vainly endeavoured to find relief from the agony of thought by mingling with the passing crowds. Despairing, she returned home and to bed, but her brain had worked itself into a tumult during the long evening hours, and no sleep came. Long she lay awake, weeping, hating, yearning and lamenting.

"You look paler than ever, Evarne, my dear! Whatever have you been doing to yourself?" cried Margaret, who came up to present her with some chocolates from a box that some admiring "chap" had sent round to the stage door. She was in high feather over the little gift.

"People think we get so many flowers given us we haven't vases to put them in, and so many pairs of gloves we haven't hands enough to wear them, and so many sweeties we haven't digestions enough to tackle them all, let alone cheques and presents of jewellery about once a week!" she exclaimed; "but I assure you that's a jolly big mistake, as you'll find out, dear. Come on, tuck in to chocs and take some of this row. They've got pinky cream, and you'll have to put some colour on from the outside, if you can't manage to provide it somehow from the inside," and she laughed gaily.

"I do hate to be alone," explained Evarne, brightening visibly at the effect of this chatter. "I—I've had great trouble lately, and when I'm by myself—well—I think!"

Margaret was full of sympathy.

"Poor dear, don't 'think' then, don't be alone. I know what we will do. I'm going to order Mrs. Burling to serve your meals along with ours, and we will see if we can't cheer you up among us."

"I should like that," cried Evarne, jumping at the idea. Thus until the following Sunday, when these kind friends moved on to play their "sketch" in a hall right out of London, she was scarcely left alone for an hour. Every night she went with Mrs. Cuthbert and Margaret to their dressing-room, where she assisted in arraying them, and was instructed in the many mysteries of "making-up." She learnt many things—the knack of melting cosmetic in a teaspoon and applying it to the eyelashes with a hairpin—how to fluff out her hair by combing it the wrong way—how to transform a skin of common lard into glorified face-grease, sweetly smelling of essence of bergamot—and a dozen other little tricks of the trade.

Either Margaret or Bertie accompanied her on her daily visits to the agents, and on Thursday morning—albeit she had as yet no "sticky-backs"—they helped her study the new number of the Stage. Her experienced friends warned her that the approach of summer was not a favourable time to find "a shop."

Nevertheless there seemed to Evarne a goodly and various demand in the "Wanted" column. There were openings for pretty attractive chorus girls, soubrettes, a good responsible lady, a powerful leading lady, a pathetic old lady, a show lady, an emotional juvenile lady, and a dashing heavy lady; and if one couldn't place one's self under any of these descriptions, then one could modestly seek to be a "chambermaid." Also there were sweeping invitations for whole companies to "write in." Accordingly Evarne "wrote in"—spent 1s. 3d. on stamps—then waited.

At the end of the week she was forced to part from her kind friends. She assured them that for their sakes she would henceforward and forever cherish an affectionate regard for the whole of the theatrical fraternity. Faithful promises of correspondence were exchanged, and then the girl found herself thrown upon her own society.

Mrs. Burling had already let her sitting-room for the coming week, but the two men who now occupied it—low comedians—appeared to fastidious Evarne as very low specimens of humanity likewise. So, when one of them—encountering her on the front doorstep—showed a tendency to be affable, she received the poor fellow's effort most coolly.

However, her time was now fully occupied. She marketed daily, haunted the theatrical agents, read poetry aloud in her best dramatic style in the privacy of her room, and occasionally expended a shilling on the gallery of some theatre to study acting and find out how it was done.

By the time the next theatrical paper appeared, she was the owner of fifty small replicas of the most attractive of her new photographs, and she desperately set to work to answer almost every advertisement—likely and unlikely. Alack and alas, not a single response crowned her efforts!

Then she nearly sank into utter despondency. Whatever was to be done? No work forthcoming, and her little hoard of money melting away like snow in a thaw. Why, it was enough to test the fortitude of the bravest! She was almost in despair by the time she had been in London two weeks, and was still as far from being a wage-earner as when she first arrived.

So the reaction was correspondingly great, when a day or two later she beheld a letter for herself with a Scotch postmark and addressed in a strange handwriting. Mrs. Burling—sympathetically excited—had hurried upstairs with the precious missive and proceeded to wipe some imaginary dust from a vase, while her young lodger tore open the envelope.

The notepaper was headed "Caledonia's Bard Co.," and beneath this was printed a few puffs of the aforesaid concern, which—if one went by its own account—carried a full cast of the most talented artistes, rich and handsome costumes, realistic scenery, etc.

The written address given was Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow, and the letter stated that the manager of "Caledonia's Bard" offered "the small yet effective part" of "Bess" in that production to Miss Stornway, at the remuneration of twenty-one shillings weekly. Miss Stornway was to provide her own costumes, which, however, were of the simplest description, and should she be still at liberty to accept the offer, a gentleman would call upon her to deliver into her hands a railway ticket to Glasgow. The communication was signed "P. Punter."

Its recipient beamed.

"I've got an offer, really!" she exclaimed. "Would you like to see it?" With these words she handed the letter over to Mrs. Burling, who perused it slowly from start to finish, then sniffed.

"A guinea a week, find your own dresses, and go to Glasgow! 'Tain't up to much, to my way o' thinking, miss. And 'e don't tell you when the tour opens, nor where it ends up, nor no idea of 'ow long it's going to last, nor nothing about it."

Evarne had not noticed these deficiencies, and now did not heed them.

"Never mind! It's an engagement, and that's everything," she cried gleefully. "I shall hurry up and accept before someone else does;" and seizing pen and paper she wrote her reply.

At all events "P. Punter" appeared a prompt and businesslike individual. By return of post came a couple of pencil sketches and instructions concerning the costumes she was to provide for herself. There was also an illegibly written copy of her part, and the request that she would be in Glasgow to commence rehearsals by the following Wednesday.

Evarne smoothed out that most interesting document—the script of her first dramatic rÔle—and studied it eagerly. She supposed "Caledonia's Bard" was Robert Burns, for references to "Bobbie" were frequent. She could not glean much idea of the plot from her part, nor did the words she was to utter appear likely to call forth any great histrionic talent that might be lying unsuspected within her breast. As far as she could gather, all the scenes of the play took place by the deathbed of "Highland Mary." She read out a speech to Mrs. Burling as a specimen.

"Now lie ye still, bonnie Mary, lie ye still. Sure, Bobbie will greet sair to see ye laid sae low. For his sake, Mary, ye must get the roses back agin into your bonnie cheeks, now sae white, Mary. Oh, doctor, is she no a wee bit better, think ye?"

Thus it went on. "Bonnie Mary" was obviously a most obstreperous patient, and it evidently called forth all "Bess's" powers of persuasion to make her die quietly in bed. "Mary" apparently took to seeing visions as the play waxed more thrilling, and "Bess" was required to employ "gentle strength" to persuade her charge to obey the injunction, repeated with wearying reiteration, "Rest ye calm, Mary; rest ye calm." Indeed, the idea did flash across Evarne that she might almost as well have undertaken to tend lunatics in the privacy of an infirmary, as she was seemingly to do much the same sort of thing on the boards and under the public gaze.

"It's not very inspiring, is it?" she said rather despondently, but at the same time she was relieved to find that no serious demands were to be made upon her—as yet untried—dramatic abilities.

She went out to buy the brown serge and the blue cotton material necessary for her two costumes, and on her return was told that during her absence a gentleman from Scotland had called and gone.

"It must be my ticket," exclaimed the girl. "Didn't he leave it?"

Mrs. Burling handed her an envelope. In it Evarne found the return-half of a third-class ticket from Glasgow to London.

"Dear me, we are going to break the regulations of the railway company, I see," was her first thought.

However, the arrival of the ticket seemed to make the engagement real—a settled fact. She was now fully in the throes of an actress's life. As she sat studying her part and stitching away at her stage costumes, she recalled the early days of Mrs. Siddons and various other great theatrical stars, and tried hard to feel resigned concerning the past and the present, and hopeful for the future. She determined to force herself to become ambitious. She would live for and think only of professional success, and dream no more of Morris.

More of her precious money had to be expended. A "make-up" outfit was essential, also a small theatrical touring basket, together with several other more or less expensive items. Thus by the time she had settled her final account with Mrs. Burling, there was less than two pounds in her purse with which to set forth for Glasgow.