I am pretty sure the Martin's passed us as we stood staring into Dawes's fruit shop, at the moment Nancy Pearson was inquiring, ‘if that was not Mrs. Salmon's wax work?' That, however, was nothing to the scene at the Bazaar. I am sure, now I think of it, I am quite glad Julia was so angry: only for the fright she put me in, I really must have fainted. However, we got into a hackney coach, and-"

"Julia into a hackney coach! and in daylight?" "Oh! I believe she would have jumped into a coal wagon, or any thing by way of escape; which was natural enough, when one considers how she dislikes being annoyed in any way; and I dare say, by to-morrow, when her anger wears itself out, she will be better tempered: she often is, you know, James. So, as she is in bed, and all that, it would be a pity, as you say— and when I have had some dinner, I shall feel better, no doubt. Besides Oh! here they come. Well, girls, what say you to going to the Play to-night?"

66 What, noo, cuzzen?"

"Not now, exactly, but after dinner."

"Aw dear, agh dawn't naw. What, te nite?" "Yes, James has obtained a private box for us, so we are sure of good places."

"Aw, bud, agh'd naw thowts of going te nite."

"Never mind that; there's plenty of time now, if it requires to be thought of beforehand."

"Aye, bud; deare mee, agh'd naw thowts, had you, Nancy, and we 're nut dressed. Hadn't we better go some other time?"

"We might not have the same privilege another night; and, in regard of dress, no one thinks of dressing for the theatre; a slouch bonnet is the most stylish thing you can go in."

"Nut dress to gang to t' play; why, what i' naem o' goodness should yan dress for then? Agh niver hard tell o' syke a thing. Agh niver was at t' play myself, bud a pessen told me, 'at went once to t' Theatre Royal, at York, 'at there was nowt less than turbums, and feathers, and t' ladies necks as bare as t' back o' yer hand."

"That must have been some time ago, I imagine. There is nothing of the sort practised now, I assure you. By the bye, James, our new man-servant has never been to a London theatre, I understand, and I promised he should go on the first opportunity: suppose we send him into the pit; he may be useful in calling a coach for us at coming away."

"Well, cuzzen, agh suppaws you knaw best,

bud it seems saw queer to gang to t' play in syke a minute!"

The fact was, "the foreign ladies," as Barney styled them, had certainly speculated on the probability of this species of amusement being offered to them; but, conscious it would form a remarkable era in their lives, they very reluctantly believed that it was a matter to be achieved upon less than three days previous expectation. To go without expressly dressing for the purpose, too, and without cousin Julia, was an arrangement they found difficult of comprehension.

To Covent Garden they went, and much to Miss Jones's self-gratulation, saw no one they knew, and succeeded in slipping quietly in and out of the theatre, without encountering either obstacle or adventure of any kind.

CHAPTER XV.

A Tragedy

Not so unfruitful in events was the first visit of Barney Mahoney to the pit of Covent Garden Theatre. In the first place, he happened to be seated next the ex-butler of the Temples, who, being as knowing a man as any about town, was extremely useful in explaining to his old fellowservant much that he saw, and all that he did not understand.

"Death alive! Misther Screw, what's this goin' on now? Oh! murther, murther, see that big blagguard how terrible he looks at de iligant lady there in de green an' gowld, an' she cryin' fit to brake de heart on her. Ah! the cruel villyan, bud I wish I was at him."

"Its all right, Barney, my lad. Its a tragedy, ye see. It would be no how at all if all the females warnt made to cry, and the men to get into furious passions. I don't know if there's killing in this play, but sometimes you'll see 'em give one another sich whacks, but its all in their

parts, you see.

I seen a play once, that was a tragedy too, where a lady comes on and goes to

"What, afore all de company! Oh, my, that bates all!"

'Aye, does she, and makes a pretence of going to sleep; ('cause its in her part, you see;) and then her husband comes on, and talks a bit, and pretends he's mortal vexed, (its in his part that,) and he takes up a pillow, and smothers her with it."

"He doant, shoore."

"Oh! be hanged if he don't though,—and a pretty creature she was,-and all about a pocket handkicher, by what I could make out."

"Oh! murther an' turf! there's a handsome lady now come on. What's she, Misther Screw? Eh! then, may be that issent a purty little straw hat at the back of her head. Shoore, now, an' doesn't it shew off her complexion all to pieces?"

"She's what they calls the rival, I take it, to she in the green and gold. They both wants the same man, by the looks on't. I should n't wonder but one on 'em gets killed afore alls done."

Matters went on towards the fifth act, and a crisis; poor Barney's were feelings often too strongly