A fiddler was caught, a beautiful slow minuet played, and a bit of
"solemn dancing" done. Certainly it was not gay, but it must be owned it
was beautiful; it was the dance of kings, the poetry of the courtly
saloon.

The retired actress, however, had frisker notions left in her. "This is
slow," cried she, and bade the fiddler play, "The wind that shakes the
barley," an ancient jig tune; this she danced to in a style that utterly
astounded the spectators.

She showed them what fun was; her feet and her stick were all echoes to
the mad strain; out went her heel behind, and, returning, drove her four
yards forward. She made unaccountable slants, and cut them all over in
turn if they did not jump for it. Roars of inextinguishable laughter
arose, it would have made an oyster merry. Suddenly she stopped, and put
her hands to her sides, and soon after she gave a vehement cry of pain.

The laughter ceased.

She gave another cry of such agony that they were all round her in a
moment.

"Oh, help me, ladies," screamed the poor woman, in tones as feminine as
they were heart-rending and piteous. "Oh, my back! my loins! I suffer,
gentlemen," said the poor thing, faintly.

What was to be done? Mr. Vane offered his penknife to cut her laces.

"You shall cut my head off sooner," cried she, with sudden energy. "Don't
pity me," said she, sadly, "I don't deserve it;" then, lifting her eyes,