"A great deal better," said the author, thinking of the various vain interests comprised in a company of actors, each listening to the lines of the character he was to play, and calling the piece good or bad according to the strength or weakness of that special part of it. He took his manuscript from his pocket and handed it to Kiss. The actor gazed with calm and impressive dignity at his audience. His movements were few and quiet and stately. He knew the value of repose. He was in his glory, master of the situation, and equal to the occasion. He opened the manuscript and was about to commence, when a diversion occurred. There was a sound at the door as of some person outside. Aunt Leth went to the door, opened it, glided into the passage, and returned.
"It is our servant," she whispered to Kiss. "She has heard of the reading, and implores to be allowed to be present. She is a very good girl. May she?"
"By all means," said Kiss. "A theatre is a packet of all sorts. Admit her."
In came 'Melia Jane, who, with awe on her features, seated herself at the back of the room, and fixed her eyes upon Kiss, who was to her a greater than Jove.
Then Kiss commenced in earnest, and quickly held his audience in thrall. He moved them to tears; he moved them to laughter. He so individualized each character, male and female, that there was no difficulty in following the course of the story. It contained tender and comic episodes, to which he gave full and distinctive weight, "bringing down the house," as he afterwards said, again and again. There was a song in the play, which he rendered amidst great applause; and as the author heard it, and saw the delighted appreciation of the little company, he hugged himself, as it were, and whispered inly: "It must be a success. It cannot, cannot fail!" Although the reading occupied two hours, there was not the least sign of weariness; and when it was finished, author and actor were overwhelmed with congratulations. As for 'Melia Jane, she so laughed, and cried, and clapped her hands, and stamped her feet, that the happy author, poor as he was, slyly slipped a shilling into her hand.
"It is," said Uncle Leth, "the very finest play that was ever written."
Upon this they were all agreed; and everyone prophesied a glorious success. Incidentally, Aunt Leth remarked, "And how beautifully you sang that song, Mr. Kiss."
"Did I?" said Kiss. "Shall I sing you another?"
The proposal was received with clapping of hands; and Kiss sang "Tom Bowline" with such tender effect that he was called upon for another.
"No," he said; "ask Linton. He knows a splendid song in another vein. Sing 'Little Billee,' Linton."