practice, from causes for which he was himself to blame, or perhaps from
that pure infelicity which accompanies some people in their walk through
life, and which it is impossible to lay at the door of imprudence,
was now reduced to nothing. They were, in fact, in the very teeth of
starvation, when the manager, who knew and respected them in better
days, took the little Barbara into his company.

At the period I commenced with, her slender earnings were the sole
support of the family, including two younger sisters. I must throw
a veil over some mortifying circumstances. Enough to say, that her
Saturday's pittance was the only chance of a Sunday's meal of meat.

This was the little starved, meritorious maid, stood before old
Ravenscroft, the treasurer, for her Saturday's payment. Ravenscroft was
a man, I have heard many old theatrical people besides herself say, of
all men least calculated for a treasurer. He had no head for accounts,
paid away at random, kept scarce any books, and summing up at the week's
end, if he found himself a pound or so deficient, blest himself that it
was no more.

Now Barbara's weekly stipend was a bare half-guinea. By mistake he
popped into her hand a whole one.

Barbara tripped away.

She was entirely unconscious at first of the mistake: God knows,
Ravenscroft would never have discovered it.

But when she had got down to the first of those uncouth landing-places
she became sensible of an unusual weight of metal pressing her little