tried to engage the Fotheringay in conversation about poetry and about
her profession. He asked her what she thought of Ophelia's madness, and
whether she was in love with Hamlet or not? "In love with such a little
ojous wretch as that stunted manager of a Bingley?" She bristled with
indignation at the thought. Pen explained it was not of her he spoke, but
of Ophelia of the play. "Oh, indeed; if no offence was meant, none was
taken: but as for Bingley, indeed, she did not value him--not that glass
of punch." Pen next tried her on Kotzebue. "Kotzebue? who was he?"--"The
author of the play in which she had been performing so admirably." "She
did not know that--the man's name at the beginning of the book was
Thompson," she said. Pen laughed at her adorable simplicity. He told her
of the melancholy fate of the author of the play, and how Sand had killed
him. It was for the first time in her life that Miss Costigan had ever
heard of Mr. Kotzebue's existence, but she looked as if she was very much
interested, and her sympathy sufficed for honest Pen.

And in the midst of this simple conversation, the hour and a quarter
which poor Pen could afford to allow himself, passed away only too
quickly; and he had taken leave, he was gone, and away on his rapid road
homewards on the back of Rebecca. She was called upon to show her mettle
in the three journeys which she made that day.

"What was that he was talking about, the madness of Hamlet, and the
theory of the great German critic on the subject?" Emily asked of her
father.

"'Deed then I don't know, Milly dear," answered the Captain. "We'll ask
Bows when he comes."

"Anyhow, he's a nice, fair-spoken pretty young man," the lady said: "how