head girl of the school. Oh, not to-day! It happened a month
ago--when we were all in consultation, making our arrangements.
Miss Ladd asked me if I had decided on a piece to recite. I said,
'I have not only decided, I have learned the piece.' 'And what
may it be?' 'The dagger-scene in Macbeth.' There was a howl--I
can call it by no other name--a howl of indignation. A man's
soliloquy, and, worse still, a murdering man's soliloquy, recited
by one of Miss Ladd's young ladies, before an audience of parents
and guardians! That was the tone they took with me. I was as firm
as a rock. The dagger-scene or nothing. The result is--nothing!
An insult to Shakespeare, and an insult to Me. I felt it--I feel
it still. I was prepared for any sacrifice in the cause of the
drama. If Miss Ladd had met me in a proper spirit, do you know
what I would have done? I would have played Macbeth in costume.
Just hear me, and judge for yourself. I begin with a dreadful
vacancy in my eyes, and a hollow moaning in my voice: 'Is this a
dagger that I see before me--?'"

Reciting with her face toward the trees, Emily started, dropped
the character of Macbeth, and instantly became herself again:
herself, with a rising color and an angry brightening of the
eyes. "Excuse me, I can't trust my memory: I must get the play."
With that abrupt apology, she walked away rapidly in the
direction of the house.

In some surprise, Francine turned, and looked at the trees. She
discovered--in full retreat, on his side--the eccentric
drawing-master, Alban Morris.

Did he, too, admire the dagger-scene? And was he modestly