THE talk of the whole of London! The beauteous Lady Anne herself's not in it with her!” said Will Oliver, scratching behind his ears. “Man, is it no' just desperate? But I'll warrant ye there's money in it, for it's yonder folk are willing to pay well for their diversion.”

“Are you sure,” said P. & A., “it's not another woman altogether? It gives the name of Wallace in the paper.”

The bellman, sitting on a soap-box, slapped his thigh and said: “I'm telling ye; I had it long ago from Kate MacNeill that her name on the stage was going to be Wallace—Winifred Wallace—and there it is in print. Tra—tragedienny, tragediennys are the head ones in the trade; I've seen them in the shows—tr-r-r-emen-dous women!”

The Provost, who had just stepped in to P. & A.'s for his Sunday sweeties, smiled tolerantly and passed his taddy-box. “Bud Dyce,” said he, “is never likely to be round this way in a caravan to do the deid-drap three times every night for front-seats sixpence. I doubt we have seen the last of her unless we have the money and the clothes for London theatres.”

“It's really her, then?” said the grocer.

“You can take Wull's word for that,” said the Provost, “and I have just been talking to her uncle. Her history's in the morning paper, and I'm the civic head of a town renowned for genius.”

Wanton Wully went out to drift along the street in the light of the bright shop windows before which bairns played “chaps me,” making choice of treasures for their gaudiness alone, like most of us, who should know better. He met George Jordon. “Geordie,” said he, “you'll have heard the latest? You should be in London; yon's the place for oddity,” and George, with misty comprehension, turned about for the road to London town. Out of the inn came Colin Cleland, hurried, in his hand the business-looking packet of tattered documents that were always his excuse for being there.

“Winifred Wallace—Great Tragedienny! It's a droll thing life, according to the way you look at it. Stirring times in London, Mr. Cleland! Changed her name to Wallace, having come of decent worthy, people. We know, but we'll not let on.”

“Not a word!” said Colin Cleland, comically. “Perhaps she may get better and the thing blow by. Are you under the impression that celebrity's a thing to be ashamed of? I tell you she's a credit to us all.”

“Lord bless me! do you say so?” asked Wull Oliver. “If I was a tragedienny I would be ashamed to show my face in the place again. We all expected something better from the wee one—she was such a caution! It was myself, as you might say, invented her; I gave her a start at devilment by letting her ring the New Year bell. After that she always called me Mr. Wanton, and kindly inquired at me about my legs. She was always quite the leddy.”

Miss Minto's shop was busy: a boy was in with a very red face demanding the remnants that by rights should have gone home with his mother's jacket, and the Misses Duff were buying chiffon.

“This is startling news about young Lennox Dyce,” remarked Miss Minto. “It's caused what you might call a stir. There's not a weekly paper to be had for love or money.”

“She was always most peculiar,” said Miss Jean. “Bizarre,” cooed Miss Amelia—it was her latest adjective.

“I was sure there was something special about in her since the very first day I saw her,” said the mantua-maker. “Yon eye, Miss Duff! And what a sweet and confident expression! I am so glad she has pleased them up in London; you never can depend on them. I am thinking of a novel blouse to mark in what I think will be a pleasing way the great occasion—the Winifred Wallace Waist I'm calling it. You remember the clever Mr. Molyneux.”

“I doubt we never understood her,” said Miss Jean. “But we make a feature now of elocution.”

“Not that we wish to turn out great tragediennes,” said Miss Amelia. “There's happiness in humbler vocations.”

“I dare say there is,” confessed Miss Minto. “I never thought of the stage myself; my gift was always dress-making, and you wouldn't believe the satisfaction that's in seeing a dress of mine on a woman who can do it justice. We have all our own bit art, and that's a wonderful consolation. But I'm very glad at that girl's progress, for the sake of Mr. Dyce—and, of course, his sisters. Miss Ailie is transported, in the seventh heaven, and even her sister seems quite pleased. 'You'll have a high head to-day,' I said to her when she was passing from the coach this afternoon.”

“And what did she say to that?” inquired Miss Jean, with curiosity.

“You know Miss Dyce! She gave a smile and said, 'But a humble heart; it's the Dyces' motto.'”

The doctor put his paper down, having read the great news over several times with a singular satisfaction that surprised his sisters, who were beat to see much glory in a state of life that meant your name on every wall and the picture of your drawing-room every other week in 'Homely Notes.' Drawing on his boots, he took a turn the length of the lawyer's house.

“Faith! London has the luck of it,” he said, on entering. “I wish I was there myself to see this wonderful Desdemona. I hope you liked your jaunt, Miss Bell?”

“It wasn't bad,” said Bell, putting out the cards. “But, mercy on me, what a silly way they have of baking bread in England!—-all crust outside, though I grant it's sweet enough when you break into it.” “H'm!” said Dr. Brash, “I've seen Scotch folk a bit like that. She has rung the bell, I see; her name is made.”

“It is, they tell me,” answered Bell, “but I hope it will never change her nature.”

“She had aye a genius,” said Mr. Dyce, cutting the pack for partners.

“She had something better,” said Miss Ailie, “she had love”; and on the town broke forth the evening bell.

THE END