But before then Evarne was reduced to what was indeed a harrowing necessity—a surreptitious visit to the pawnshop. For some days ere this she had been gradually eating less and less in a despairing endeavour to hinder the steady lightening of her purse. But even porridge and tea, bread and salt butter, rice and brown sugar, however cheap, and alas! correspondingly nasty, cost something.

One terrible morning, on returning from the day's meagre shopping, she sat down to grapple with the fact that all the money she possessed amounted to five pennies and one farthing.

The only article of any value that she still owned was her simple little enamel-cased watch.

The dire necessity of creeping into a pawnshop, to raise money on her father's last gift, distressed the girl beyond measure. She sat playing with the poor little thing, turning it over and over tenderly in her hands, while tears of mingled shame and grief gathered behind her eyelids. At length she was learning the truly humiliating side of abject poverty. She had asked Mr. Punter to advance a portion of her first week's salary, and had been refused. Now, not only was she terrified and appalled as she heard the violent scratching of the gaunt wolf against her slender shaking door, but abashed and mortified at what must be done to ward off these cruel fangs yet a little longer.

However, she talked logic and practical common sense to herself, and after twilight had shrouded the city in a kindly veil, sought out an establishment decorated by three balls, and as unobtrusively as possible sneaked inside its portals.

An old man behind the counter of the small cubby-hole in which she found herself, looked at her watch and inquired how much she wanted on it? She had half anticipated being called upon to prove that it was legally hers, but questions of any other nature were quite unexpected. On the spur of the moment, fearful of asking too much, she said softly, "Twenty-five shillings, please." But even at this the old man pouted out his lips for a minute, then said:

"We couldna gie ye mair nor fifteen shillin's."

With the colour rising to her cheeks Evarne agreed, whereupon her embarrassment was increased by the unlooked-for fact of her name being demanded. With a half-sovereign and five shillings in her purse, and her watch represented by a horrible pawn-ticket, she slipped from the shop, feeling relieved and degraded at the same time.

She clung to the idea of the ultimate success of "Caledonia's Bard" with a tenacity that was pitiful. It must, it should triumph! She dared not look onward and contemplate what might be her lot if this unpromising venture should indeed fail. The future had seemed black enough while she still possessed a few pounds and one or two trinkets. Now she had nothing—nothing!

On the company arriving at Ayr on Monday afternoon they proceeded direct to the Drill Hall, where the "fit-up" was to be erected. There—to the frank surprise of some of the more incredulous—they actually discovered both Mr. Heathmore and Madame Cheape awaiting them. The parts of "Burns" and "Clarinda" were not, then, to be undertaken at the last moment by Mr. Punter and Evarne respectively, as had been whispered.

The girls were scarcely prepossessed by Madame Cheape. Evidently quite a middle-aged woman, she obviously objected to this fact being known, and strove to conceal it by the use of golden hair-dye and face powder, of which quantity endeavoured to compensate for quality. This very forgivable weakness in the lady's nature could have been overlooked, but her affected airs and languid drawl were, somehow, irritating in the last degree.

She inquired if Evarne and Jess were settled in "diggings" yet, and suggested that all three should put up together. The girls glanced questioningly at one another. They had already arranged to divide expenses, and now, on the score of further economy, agreed to the newcomer's proposition.

And certainly, it was largely the business-like capacities of Madame Cheape that enabled them to get rooms for twelve-and-six the week for the three. For this sum they were to have a sitting-room on the ground floor, a double-bedded front and a small back bedroom upstairs. By common consent Madame Cheape was accorded the privilege of solitary grandeur.

The house stood in an eminently respectable street, one end of which opened on to the banks of a canal. The sitting-room was really quite pretty, with clean curtains, pictures, and cheerful coloured cushions. Moreover, in the corner stood a piano, its brightly-polished candle-holders and embroidered key-cover suggesting that it was the pride of its owner's heart.

That evening took place what had promised to be the first real rehearsal, but lo! it seemed totally impossible to get a full cast together. "Clarinda" and "Burns" were on hand now, sure enough, but that much-needed personage, Charles Stuart—scene painter and shifter—prince and footman—had run away! He added insult to injury by leaving a message that he was "safely out of it," and "Caledonia's Bard" knew him no more.

His mantle descended upon two of Mr. Punter's sons, who donned it reluctantly enough. These lads, Pat and Billie, nervous gawks of seventeen and nineteen, were both seemingly of such timorous dispositions as to be unable to speak above a whisper. The lost Charlie had roared his words like the Bull of Bashan. He would have been audible, at all events.

Mr. Heathmore repeatedly assured everyone that he had only received his script that Saturday. Since some of the scenes consisted almost entirely of soliloquies on Burns's part, and since the poet, even in casual conversation, had a little way of giving utterance to speeches of over a page in length, poor Mr. Heathmore was still far from having committed the part to memory. He unblushingly carried the voluminous script in his hand as he acted, but held out hopes of knowing it pretty well by the fateful Wednesday night. But if he really believed this himself, no one else shared his confidence on the point.

Even had the performance been a fortnight instead of a couple of days ahead, the company would have appeared in a hopelessly backward and muddled state. Dismay was universal.

"This is no ordinary theatrical concern, is it?" inquired Evarne despondently, and thereby aroused a regular storm.

"Heavens, no! It's a howling swindle! Ayr will probably see the beginning and the end of the whole idiotic show." All agreed that the play itself was a bit of rubbish, the management a regular humbugging affair, and the prospects of the tour—nil!

"Do let's work hard, though. Do let's make it a success if we can," begged poor Evarne, but indeed no one stood in need of any such prompting. All would willingly have rehearsed from morning to night, but Mr. Heathmore insisted on being left in peace on Tuesday afternoon to try to master at least some of his endless part. Thus the remainder of the company were at liberty to visit Burns's Cottage, the Kirk o' Alloway, and to wander along "Ye banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon."

In the evening, after another rehearsal, the girls held a reception and supper-party in their sitting-room. It was not a wild extravagance—indeed rather an economy—though maybe there was something of "eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die," in the feeling that prompted it. The supper was a joint-stock affair; everyone who was invited was in the same breath likewise asked to produce fourpence towards the banquet. Jess expended the fund of three shillings thus raised on bread and cheese, honest unpretentious beer, a monstrous hot rice pudding with jam sauce, mixed biscuits and a couple of bunches of watercress. All the shareholders were fully satisfied, and united in a vote of thanks to the caterer.

After supper an impromptu concert was organised. Everyone was able to contribute to the general entertainment, save Evarne herself, and Pat and Billie Punter, whom nobody heeded. But Evarne fulfilled her share of social duties by presiding over all, and surely never had such a gracious and tactful young hostess held sway over such a strangely mixed gathering.

The piano—the well-tuned, well-polished piano—was an immense assistance. Mont sang, Jessie played, and Douglas was enabled to show off his much-belauded tenor notes. And exquisite they were, in sooth—those tender, heart-stirring and dulcet strains. It was indeed a glorious singing-bird that was confined in this ex-prize fighter's throat.

The hostess's only trouble was Madame Cheape. That languid individual had spent the afternoon with the landlady, Mrs. Sargeant, and the evening likewise, presumably, for she had not turned up at the seven o'clock rehearsal.

And alack! this protracted confabulation had very evidently not been carried on without the aid of a certain amount of liquid refreshment—and that, too, of a more exhilarating nature than mere tea. Thus, after a bumper of beer at supper, the sentiment of the tenor's love-songs proved too trying. The final strains of "Sweet GÉneviÈve" were still lingering on the air, when the hush that Douglas's enchanted notes evoked was ruthlessly broken in upon by Madame Cheape. She proclaimed that they were all getting "a confounded sight too solemn," and that she would liven them up with a dance. Thereupon the poor old thing, seizing her skirts, proceeded to "liven them up a bit."

Jess, who was seated at the piano, promptly strummed a merry dance-tune, and all laughed to watch Madame Cheape's absurd caperings. There had been a time when Evarne would immediately have been outraged by the painful spectacle, but now, to behold a half-drunken woman providing merriment for a roomful of men was no longer strange or instantly repulsive. She laughed too, until she suddenly realised that she had been enabled to discover that Madame Cheape wore red garters, and remembered that she was in the society of presumably respectable men.

She became scandalised, and, springing to her feet, called, to Jess to cease playing at once. Then, since the dancing was continued with renewed vigour to compensate for the absence of music, Evarne laid her hands on the shoulders of the skittish performer, and suggested that "Clarinda" should retire and have a nice long night in readiness for the morrow. But dear "Clarinda," not being taken by this notion, declined to act upon it. She hadn't nearly done her dance yet. Let Miss Stornway be off to bed herself. But Evarne was determined to get the intoxicated woman out of the room, and rapidly crossing to the door, flung it open as a preliminary to bringing "gentle strength" to reinforce her wise advice.

Outside a surprise awaited Evarne.

She found herself face to face with the flabbergasted Mrs. Sargeant, who was standing on the doormat.

"You were just coming in, I suppose?" inquired Evarne politely.

The landlady stammered, and at length confessed that she had been listening. But her explanation made the action appear forgivable—even touching. Her son was a sailor, she said; he used to sing "Sweet GÉneviÈve," and until this evening she had not heard it since he went away to sea.

Evarne believed her, and was moved to sympathy.

"Would you very much like to hear it again?" she asked. "I'm sure Mr. Douglas won't mind repeating it."

Gratefully the woman entered the room and stood by the piano, her eyes fixed on the singer, as once more his exquisite notes sweetened the air. Then, full of thanks, she went out, taking the unsentimental Madame Cheape with her, and ere long the party broke up.