he himself had commended, or read aloud, to the Caroline of old.

The next day Waife, who seemed now recovered as by enchantment, walked
forth with George, Darrell again with Sophy. Sir Isaac arrived--Immense
joy; the doe butts Sir Isaac, who retreating, stands on his hind legs,
and, having possessed himself of Waife's crutch, presents fire; the doe
in her turn retreats;--half an hour afterwards doe and dog are friends.

Waife is induced, without much persuasion, to join the rest of the party
at dinner. In the evening, all (Fairthorn excepted) draw round the fire.
Waife is entreated by George to read a scene or two out of Shakespeare.
He selects the latter portion of "King Lear." Darrell, who never was a
playgoer, and who, to his shame be it said, had looked very little into
Shakespeare since he left college, was wonderstruck. He himself read
beautifully--all great orators, I suppose, do; but his talent was not
mimetic--not imitative; he could never have been an actor--never thrown
himself into existences wholly alien or repugnant to his own. Grave or
gay, stern or kind, Guy Darrell, though often varying, was always Guy
Darrell.

But when Waife was once in that magical world of art, Waife was gone--
nothing left of him;--the part lived as if there were no actor to it;
--it was the Fool--it was Lear.

For the first time Darrell felt what a grand creature a grand actor
really is--what a luminous, unconscious critic bringing out beauties of
which no commentator ever dreamed! When the reading was over, talk still
flowed; the gloomy old hearth knew the charm of a home circle. All
started incredulous when the clock struck one. Just as Sophy was passing
to the door, out from behind the window curtain glared a vindictive,