Miss Brodie had apologised for not having a spare bed.

"If it had been the morn's nicht, noo," she explained. "I've got ma sister frae Lunnon stoppin' wi' me, she's in the only vacant room, but she'll be awa' again the morn."

Of course, Evarne emphatically declared that she did not envy the sister the spare room one jot, and soon after this they composed themselves to rest.

But Evarne wooed sleep in vain. In silence and darkness and strangeness; the excitement of the evening, with its sustaining power all past; the company finally disbanded and deserted; everything chaos for the present—and for the morrow——? She had now a shilling and a halfpenny left in the world. Supposing she pawned some of her garments, and thus got back to Glasgow, wherein had she at all bettered her position? What could she do for the next night, let alone the nights to come? How long would it be now before she was both hungry and penniless? Would she then have to go into the workhouse—or what?

She shuddered in bed, and writhed her fingers as if suffering physical agony. The cruel horror of the immediate future seemed to crush her as she lay. For the sake of her bedfellow she forced herself to remain silent and motionless for what seemed an interminable period. But giving way to a sudden invincible panic induced by accumulated reflections on many possibilities, she started up violently, and cried in a voice that scarcely sounded her own—

"Oh Heaven! What am I to do?" Then, burying her face in her hands, she wept unrestrainedly.

An arm crept round her waist, and she was gently drawn to the side of her companion.

"Puir lassie," said the kindly voice. "You're o'er-rocht. Dinna greet, but lie quiet and see what daylight brings. You've a' had a verra tryin' time here, but you'll sune be hame aince mair wi' your frien's, and mayhap a kind fayther or mither to welcome ye."

"Oh no, no!" sobbed the girl, "I've got no one—nothing—no parents, no home or friends or anything! Oh, what shall I do? what will become of me?"

Miss Brodie leaned out of bed and lit a candle.

"The dark is na cheerie," she declared.

Evarne managed to choke down her grief, and lay back upon the pillow once more.

"I'm so sorry to have awakened you. Please go to sleep again. I'm going to be quite still and quiet now."

"Dinna think o' me," said the kind-hearted Scots-woman. "What o' yoursel', puir bairn? It's a terrible thing for a lassie to be a' her lain i' the world."

Gradually Evarne was prevailed upon to confide the seriousness of her plight. Miss Brodie grew more and more pitying and sympathetic.

"I'll consult wi' ma sister," she said, at length. "Jean has got verra sharp wits frae being in Lunnon. She will advise ye. Anyway, ma lamb, dinna think that I'll turn ye oot a' at aince, though ye had naething in the whole world but a tongue to say 'thank ye' wi'."

Evarne kissed her again and again.

"I do meet kind friends, anyway," she whispered, and encircled by Miss Brodie's motherly arms, she at length fell asleep.

Notwithstanding the disturbances of the night, the thrifty Scotswoman rose as usual shortly after daybreak, and by the time Evarne had awoke, dressed and wandered out into the kitchen, she found that her difficulties and distresses had already been the subject of careful debate between Martha and Jean Brodie.

The latter, a tall, angular young woman, with a somewhat careworn expression, had justified her sister's confidence by almost instantly producing a suggestion anent the vexed question of earning a livelihood without a week's delay. Waiting only until Martha had ladled out a plateful of porridge and set it before Evarne, she opened the subject without any preliminary remarks.

"Are you at all a good needlewoman, Miss Stornway?"

"Only pretty fair," was the truthful response. "I've done a lot of embroidery, but scarcely any plain sewing. I made this blouse I've got on, though; but not without help."

"That will do. Now, if my sister didn't exaggerate, if you're really penniless and don't know which way to turn——"

Evarne cast down her eyes.

"That's right enough," she said; "go on."

"In that case I can give you a job myself—that is, if you're not too proud to work hard and live humbly."

Here was indeed a surprise.

"Only try me," declared the girl eagerly. "What is it?"

"Perhaps Martha told you I was a blousemaker by trade. I work for a wholesale house in the City. I haven't got a big business, but I live by it, and I always have a young girl under me as an apprentice to do certain parts of the word. Generally, my assistant lives and boards with me, I pay her half a crown a week and teach her the business. As soon as the girl is past the apprentice stage she leaves me and I get another beginner. My last one left me just before I came away for my holiday. My girls are generally only about fourteen or fifteen; but if you care to take the job for a time, it's open to you at once, and you'll get a better berth presently like the others, if you choose to continue in the needlework line. There's my offer."

"I daursay it seems a bit o' a come-doon i' the world to you," interposed Martha, "but when all's said and done it's a respectable, God-fearin' business that no woman need be ashamed o'."

"Think it over while you eat your breakfast," advised Jean.

Evarne was distinctly startled at an entirely fresh career being thus suddenly dangled before her gaze for inspection. The remuneration offered, two-and-six weekly, likewise proved amazing. Still, board and lodging were included in the bond, and, after the terrible pictures her imagination had painted in the blackness of the past night, the certain assurance of a sheltering roof, and of bread to ward off the pangs of hunger, was alone sufficient to form a bright constellation of stars in her dark sky. Not long did she stop to consider whether these newly-risen orbs were of a colour and design pleasing to her fancy. Between the fifth and sixth spoonfuls of porridge she had signified her willingness to become a blouse apprentice.

"Then pack up your things as soon as you've done eating. We must catch the half-past eleven train, because of my excursion ticket."

"How—I hadn't thought of that—how am I to get my fare?" faltered Evarne painfully.

"I'm going to lend it to ye, lassie, and sure, you can pay me back week by week," declared Martha.

Evarne endeavoured to express her gratitude, but the only answer she got was—

"It's naething at a'. Jist keep your breath to cool your porridge, and make haste too."

Speedily finishing her meal, the girl went upstairs to Mrs. Shiells's. There, in the kitchen, she found a heated quarrel in progress. The "loot" of the disbanded "Caledonia's Bard" was the bone of contention. Archie had carefully packed the limes-box round with stage garments, enclosed the whole in a drop-scene, tied it all up with gas-tubing, and then calmly announced that this was his "little share." Since there was not much left of any description, all the other members of the late company, headed by Douglas, were vigorously protesting.

Already Archie had been discovered trying to palm off upon his landlady, in lieu of money, a couple of long cylinders containing gas—dangerous, explosive, useless objects to which no one would willingly even give house-room. General indignation had been provoked by this attempt at returning evil for good, and amid the general uproar it was some time before Evarne could persuade the excited party to turn their attention to her, and realise that she had come to bid them farewell.

The regrets expressed at this parting were perfectly sincere on both sides. Evarne was being swooped off, leaving many mysteries unsolved. Where was Madame Cheape? What would befall the piano that day? Would Mr. Punter try to reclaim any of his stage belongings? Moreover, it appeared that that gentleman's whereabouts were being eagerly inquired after by a number of the leading tradesmen of the district, who had been persuaded to pay cash down for advertisement spaces on the back of the company's programmes, misled by the assurance of a prolonged local tour for "Caledonia's Bard"—a fact that went a long way toward explaining the whole strange business. Jess and Mont both undertook to write and tell Evarne all the news, but ere she well knew how it had come to pass, she found herself in the train being whirled back to London.

Another act in the "Drama of Reality" had commenced.