regular accompaniment of bell and curtain, the performance was
repeated.

Dakie Thayne was stage-manager and curtain-puller; Sin Saxon and Frank
Scherman represented audience, with clapping and stamping, and
laughter that suspended both,--making as nearly the noise of two
hundred as two could,--this being an essential part of the rehearsal
in respect to the untried nerves of the _debutant_, which might easily
be a little uncertain.

"He stands fire like a Yankee veteran."

"It's inimitable," said Sin Saxon, wiping the moist merriment from her
eyes. "And your cap, Leslie! And that bonnet! And this unutterable old
oddity of a gown! Who did contrive it all? and where did they come
from? You'll carry off the glory of the evening. It ought to be the
last."

"No, indeed," said Leslie. "Barbara Frietchie must be last, of course.
But I'm so glad you think it will do. I hope they'll be amused."

"Amused! If you could only see your own face!"

"I see Sir Charles's, and that makes mine."

The new performer, you perceive, was an actor with a title.

That night's coach, driving up while the dress-rehearsal of the other
tableaux was going on at the hall, brought Cousin Delight to the Green
Cottage, and Leslie met her at the door.