had thrown her fierce, avenging hands against his breast, faltered, and fell on the edge of the pavement, which was like a sheet of ice. A rough pebble, cast up by accident from the street and frozen on to the paving-stone, caught his temple; and when I went to raise him upwhen Laura Jervoise, whose jealous fury had caused her to track him down, knelt to assist me-he was dead! Dead! At the door of the woman who loved him! Dead by the hand of the woman he loved! I can't paint the girl's despair when she realised the truth. It is no more to be described than is Mrs. Moreton's misery and remorse, for they were her words which had brought him to town, and wrought the wretchedness. Nor can I tell of the strong sorrow of our poor old father when the dead body of the son he loved, even as he had loved our mother, was carried into the hall amidst the gasping, gulping sobs of every servant, labourer, and friend about the place. Twelve months have passed over our heads since we laid my brother in his grave. For six of these months my father has rested beside Sydney, and to-day those of us who are left are assembled once more in the house of which I have become the head at such a fearful price. All day my sisters have seemed to be on the brink of making a communication, all day they have restrained themselves. But when we are about to depart for the night, one of them says— "How earnestly you read those words, Jack, dear—' Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us!' You meant them thoroughly?" "As I hope to be forgiven, Ella!" "There is one we never mention, Jack, dear "—(her voice got lower and lower)" pray for Laura Jervoise to-night, for-she is in a madhouse!" A CHRISTMAS CAROL. BY MRS. LEITH-ADAMS. B RIGHT leaved laurel, shadowy fir, Cometh with a merry chime! See the flick'ring firelight's gleam, Yet amid our joyous glee, Some are friendless-all alone, . . ... "This year-one dear voice no more This year but an empty chair, Hark! the angel choir above, Blessed Jesus! by Thy birth, HOW WE PLAYED "CLANCARTY." BY INA LEON CASSILIS. JUR CLUB is the "Fireworks" Amateur Dramatic Club. thing" now-a-days, if you want to attract people. That name was my suggestion, so I am naturally proud of it. I am not one of the actors, nor even stage or acting manager; I am a sort of everybody's friend in the Club, and have a good deal to say, when I choose to say it, which isn't often, for being a dramatic critic, and knowing, therefore, a good deal about matters theatrical, my opinion is frequently asked, and my approval or disapproval is of some moment. But I am generally very modest, and only on rare occasions give my advice unasked; of course it is never attended to when it is asked. Our company is a tolerably numerous one, and in our—that is, in their opinions, composed of "all the talents "-like the late Gladstone administration. In fact, the superabundance of first-rate talent is our greatest difficulty. We have Hamlets and Queen Katherines in plenty; but no one who will willingly accept a smaller part; when these are (after much discussion, and a good deal of squabbling, and a great deal of behind-your-back criticism) cast, the trodden on tragedians and wasted high comedians have to be pacified by definite promises of leading roles in future performances. We have two ingénues and one jeune. premier, but these only consent to the subordinate positions because they are very young, and rather little-(the jeune premier is really only big enough for a page); as soon as they grow up a bit they will want leading parts too. One of the ingénues, as it is, thinks herself capable of playing Juliet, and I saw her do it once. It was immensely funny! I remember a performance we gave two years ago of " Hunted Down" (we don't go in for Shakespeare-not yet), and there was quite a scrimmage at the meeting for discussing the matter, and casting the piece. So hotly contested was the race for the part of Mary, that our treasurer-who is rather "up and down," and indeed, were it not for him we should probably quarrel into collapse-exclaimed, "This play was acted once as 'The Two Lives of Mary Lee.' As things are going now, she will have six lives, at the least. Three more will make her a cat." At last I hit upon a "happy thought," and suggested that we should cast lots for the parts, and after the proposition had, in its turn, been squabbled over, it was adopted. The result was that our "leading lady" was nowhere; our second (I am using my definitions nownot theirs) was the nurse, and the tallest ingénue-the only one then, was Mary! While John Lee, a very good fellow, but a decided boobya sort of Chambers' Journal young man, he always appears to me-fell to the lot of Charles Dacre, a really clever actor-for an amateur-and a pronounced swell, who would have made a capital Rawdon Scudamore. Scudamore was drawn by a comic young man, who makes dismal jokes and laughs at them himself-nobody else would-and as he considers himself a Sothern under a cloud, he was delighted with his part, and nothing would persuade him to give it up. It was no use telling him that it wasn't ex-xactly suited to his style of comedy, you know. Mr. Dobson (that's me) thinks-er-that-in fact, you know, Biggins, (his nom de théâtre is Mervyn-sweet name, isn't it?) we think Scudamore is-is (vague murmurings, and something about hors ligne, and too much of-er-well-etc.). Biggins wasn't to be hood winked; he had played an inferior part last time to please others (he had been Bertie Cameron in "Alone !"), and he really thought it was due to him to have a role that gave him some scope. So he played Rawdon Scudamore, and showed that it gave him scope. I saw Irving play that part, and I told Biggins that I liked his acting of it better. So I did; at anyrate I laughed till I was blind at Biggins' Scudamore, if that was any proof of superiority in the amateur reading. Biggins took me at my word, and I appeared in a |