“And a drap o' whisky will do no harm—a wee drappie.”
“There's only one thing clear—God sees I'm unfit for the work, so he has taken it away from me.”
She turned aside from the table, and the supper was left untouched.
The first post next morning brought a letter from Glory.
“The Garden House,
“Clement's Inn, W. C.
“Forgive me! I have returned to town! I couldn't help it, I couldn't, I couldn't! London dragged me back. What was I to do after everything was settled and the aunties provided for?—assist in a dame's school and wage war with pothooks and hangers? Oh! I was dying of weariness—dying, dying, dying!
“And then they made me such tempting offers. Not the music hall—don't think that. I dare say you were quite right there. No, but the theatre, the regular theatre! Mr. Drake has bought some broken-down old place, and is to turn it into a beautiful theatre expressly for me. I am to play Juliet. Only think—Juliet!—and in my own theatre! Already I feel like a liberated slave who has crossed her Red Sea.
“And don't think a woman's mourning is like the silly old laws which lasted but three days. He is buried in my heart, not in the earth, and I shall love him and revere him always! And then didn't you tell me yourself it would not be right to allow his death to stop my life?