After years of weary waiting, years of patient work, I had reached the position of juvenile leads de jure, but of general lack de facto, and then, lacking as my character was in the element of "push," even I could see plainly that I was throwing away myself and my chances in life by remaining in a position where I faced the sign of "No thoroughfare."

That Mrs. Ellsler would retain the leading business while her husband retained a theatre was certain. I knew positively that some of Cleveland's leading business men, sturdy supporters of the theatre, finding that their mildly expressed dissatisfaction with the make-up of the company was ignored, had written and plainly asked for a change, just as Mr. Ellsler, every two years, changed the comedian, leading man, etc., etc. They declared that his business would double in consequence; and this was submitted with the kindliest intentions and no wish to wound anyone, etc., and they were, with great respect—various business men.

At all events, when the letter had produced embarrassed discomfort in one quarter and fierce anger in another, it became inactive. I rightly judged that the "No thoroughfare" sign was permanent—there was no further advancement possible in that theatre; therefore I rejoiced greatly when I had an engagement offered me, even though, for reasons touching the reputation of the manager who wrote, I refused it—still an offer of leading business heartened me, and I felt gratefully sure some star had spoken a kind word in my behalf. There was so much hanging upon that possible engagement, too; it meant more than advancement professionally, more than gratified ambition. Never yet had I been able to go beyond the taking care of myself and lending a helping hand in sickness to my mother; while, to my unsleeping distress, my bitter mortification, she had still to work. We were still apart, save for my regular weekly visit, and such a small increase in salary would have made it possible for us to live together, after a manner, in a very small way, but we would rather have been half alive and together than have thrilled with superabundant vitality while separated.

As my services had never seemed to be regarded seriously by anyone but the star of the especial occasion, I was not utterly taken aback when I found my intention of stepping bravely out into the big world received with surprise and cold disapproval. Really, I was almost convinced that I had still the very a-b-abs of my business yet to learn, that I was rash and headstrong and all puffed up with strange, unseemly vanity; but just as I was sinking back to that "old-slipper" state of mind desired, a letter came from the well-known, thoroughly established actor-manager, Mr. Barney Macaulay, who offered me the leading business at Wood's Museum, Cincinnati, O.

The salary was very small, but I understood perfectly that any manager would offer as small a salary to any actress whose first season it was as leading woman.

Oh, my! oh, my! but there followed a period of scant sunshine, of hot argument, of cold and cautious advice, of terrifying hints of lacking qualities. Want of dignity, of power, of authority! The managerial forces were winning all along the line of argument, when, like many another combatant who faces annihilation, I took a desperate chance; I called up every dissatisfied speech of my absent mother, every complaint, regret, reproach, every word of disappointment, of vexation, of urging, of goading, of stern command, and arming these words with parental authority I mounted them upon a mother's fierce wrath, and thus, as cavalry, recklessly hurled them at full charge upon the enemy's line. I had no infantry of proof to support my cavalry's move, it was sheer desperation; but Fortune is a fickle jade, she sprang suddenly to my side. The managerial lines broke before the mother's charge, and before he had them reformed I had written Mr. Macaulay that I was ready to consider to accept the offered engagement, if, etc., etc., and then put on my hat and jacket and went forth and cleverly showed, first the offered engagement to arouse my victimized parent's hopes, then descanted upon the opposition offered to my acceptance of it, and when she was warmed with indignation I confessed to using her as my principal weapon—even admitted making up some speeches, and being hot and pleased, indignant and proud, she forgave me, and I bit my lips hard to keep silence about a great hope that she might possibly go with me to that new engagement; but, to spare her a possible disappointment, I held my peace.

Later, when everything was seemingly settled and only the contract left to sign, came the amazing suggestion from Mr. Macaulay, that, because of my youth, I would undoubtedly be perfectly willing to let him reserve a few heavy parts for his wife's acting. It is quite needless for me to explain that the few parts to be reserved were the choicest of the legitimate drama. And then an amusing thing came to pass. I, who was so lacking in self-confidence, so backward and retiring, so easily cast down by a look of disapprobation, suddenly developed (on paper) an ability to stand up for my rights that was startling. By return mail I informed Mr. Macaulay that my youth did not affect me in the manner he anticipated; that I was not willing to resign all those important parts to another—no matter whose wife that other happened to be.

A long, argumentative, soothing sort of letter came back to me, ending with the positive conviction that I would yield two parts to his wife—great pets of hers they were, too, and one of them being Lady Macbeth, I would of course be grateful to have it taken off my hands, while Julia, in "The Hunchback," had really come to be considered, in Cincinnati, as Miss Johnson's special property—Miss Rachael Johnson being the stage name of Mrs. Macaulay.

Had he asked two parts in the first place I would have granted them, but now my blood was up (on paper, mind you), and with swift decision I boldly threw the engagement up, declaring I would be the leading woman or nothing. For, you see, I had been in the frying-pan of one family theatre all my dramatic life, and I was not willing to throw myself at once into the fire of another one.

The next letter contained a great surprise: a couple of signed contracts and a pleasant request for me too to sign both and return one immediately. Then the writer quite gently regretted my inability to grant his request, but closed by expressing his respect for my firmness in demanding my rights; and straightway I signed my first contract; went out and mailed one copy, and when I returned I had made up my mind to take the great risk—I had decided that my mother should never again receive commands from anyone. That my shoulders were strong enough to bear the welcome burden, and so we would face the new life and its possible sufferings together—together, that was the main thing.

As I stood before the glass, smoothing my hair, I gravely bowed to my reflection, and said: "Accept my congratulations and best wishes, 'Wood's leading lady,'" and then fell upon the bed and sobbed, as foolish nerve-strained women will; because, you see, the way had been so long and sometimes so hard, dear Lord! so hard, but by His mercy I had won one goal—I was a leading woman!

And then began my good-by to the city that I loved. I had lived in so many of its streets; I had attended so many of its schools, and still more of its churches. There was the great lake, too. I had sailed on it, had been wrecked on it, but against that I set the memory of those days when, in night-gown bath-dress, I reveled in its blue waters on Fourth of July family picnics.

One church—old Bethel on Water Street—I hated, because the Sunday-school superintendent had been a hypocrite, and we knew it, and because in every one of its library books the good child died at the end, which was very discouraging to youthful minds.

Another church, on Prospect Street, I loved, because that Sunday-school teacher had been so gentle and smiling and had worn such pretty pink flowers in her bonnet.

Then there was the fountain in the square. I laughed as I said good-by to that, recalling the morning when, because of a bad throat, I had unobservedly, as I supposed, swallowed a powder (hom[oe]opathic), and next moment heard hurrying footsteps behind me and felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, while a rough voice cried: "Where's the paper? what did you do it for? what's your name? say, answer up, now, before it gets hold of you—what's your name?"

Frightened and bewildered, 'twas with difficulty I convinced the suspicious policeman that I was not attempting suicide by poison, but was trying to cure a sore throat. A theatre bill-board was in fair view, and my part in the play, which I luckily held rolled in my hand, induced him to let me go to rehearsal instead of the station-house; and while the policeman dispersed the crowd his own error had gathered, I resolved, as I flew toward the theatre, to take no more powders in public parks—no matter how empty they might seem to be.

And then there was the jail, and as I nodded a good-by at its blackened walls I saw again that sunny morning when, in greatest haste, I passed that way and observed, coming toward me, three men walking very closely, who showed no intention of making way for me—which made me look at them surprisedly. And then the astonishing beauty of the tail, white-clothed central figure brought me to a halt. His ruddy features were as severely perfect as those stamped on an ancient coin. His glittering hair and mustache were of that pale and precious gold most often seen crowning a baby's head. His figure was tall, broad-shouldered, small-waisted, and his hands, good God! I whispered, and stopped there, for he wore the hand-cuffs, and on either side of him a strong and grimy hand gripped his arm. That was why they made no room for me; and as I swerved swiftly out into the middle of the street to pass them by, there came a glitter of bold blue eyes, a flash of white teeth, and a deep voice cried back to me: "I'm awfully sorry; I beg your pardon," and then they wheeled inside the iron gates, and five minutes later I knew the physically splendid creature I had seen was that Dr. Hughes who had just been taken for the murder of his victim (of a mock marriage), poor little sixteen-year-old Tamsie Parsons—she of the curly head, but steel-firm mouth, who loved passionately this God-like devil, yet had the moral courage to resist him to the death.

And then the post-office was quite full of memories. One made my brow grow moist, even after years had passed since the damp autumn day when, as a child, I had let fall upon the stone floor a good large bottle of benzine. The crushed thing, wrapped nicely in blue paper, lay there, innocent to behold, while its escaping volatile contents got in some really fine work. First, two ladies held their noses, then a fierce old be-whiskered man looked about suspiciously, working his offended member just as a dog would. Then two men hurrying in opposite directions, but with their eyes turned up inquiringly toward the gas-fixture overhead, collided violently, and instead of apologizing, each abused the other as a blundering idiot, and wrinkling up their noses disgustedly, unlocked their boxes, and still grumbling went their ways, one declaring that the gas being wasted there was sufficient to illuminate the whole building. Then doors began to open violently, and pale men in office coats of alpaca darted out and ran about, frantically trying to turn off gas that was not turned on; and there I stood, shivering over the innocent blue package, very wet by that time, with my fear of a whipping for breaking the bottle losing itself in the greater terror of some swift public expiation of my fault. The unknown is always terrifying, and I strove in vain to imagine what the punishment would be for creating evil odors in a public building that brought postal clerks from their work in pursuit of them. But the sight of a policeman advancing toward the delivery window suddenly set me in motion, and with a bound I was out of the door and running like mad for a (then) Kinsman Street car. I wonder yet if that gas leak was ever properly located.

Another day I had been sent for an advertised letter, and as several grown-ups were ahead of me at the little window, I withdrew to lean against the wall and rest a bit while waiting, for I had walked far and was very tired. And then a very white-haired, white-whiskered, white-tied old gentleman entered one of the many doors and looked nervously about him; when, seeing me, he brightened up, and at once began to beckon me toward him. Always respectfully obedient to the old, I at once approached the pink and white chipper old man, who nodded, smiled, and patting my head, asked, eagerly: "Er—er, do you—can you get letters from the office-window yonder?"

His restless eyes wandered all over the place. "Oh, yes, sir," I answered, "I often get them for my mother, and for other people, too!"

"Quite right, yes, yes, quite right, quite right!" responded the old gentleman, then added, reflectively: "Yes, she's a female, but females receive letters, though they don't vote, yes, yes! Well, my child, I want you to help me in a great and good work. You know people are taught from their earliest infancy the necessity of minding their P's and Q's, and that they don't do it! Now you and I will mind the P's and Q's of this great city, won't we, my dear? So, you just go to the window there and get all the letters there are for Parker, Purley, Prentiss, and Porter, and I'll come after you and get all the letters for Pixley, Pratt, Prince, and Pettigrew, and to-morrow, my dear, we'll come down and get all the Q's—the Quigley, Quinn, and Quiller crowd—and—and we'll take all the letters over to the fountain and throw them in the basin of water, and if they float we'll pitch bricks at 'em! Now, now's your time, go ahead, and get all the P's you can—it's a great scheme, great!" and then he stopped, for an almost breathless voice called out: "Here he is, Hank! confound him!" And as two men hurried toward my chipper old reformer, one said, reproachfully: "Now, look-a-here, Mr. Peiffer, if you don't keep your word no better nor this, Hank and me'll have to keep hold of you on your walks, and you won't like that!"

"No," meekly murmured the old man, "I—er—I won't like that, I'm sure."

Then Hank turned to me and asked, suspiciously: "Has he been filling you full of P's and Q's?"

I nodded. "Then," said the other man, "we'd better get him back quick, that's the way he begins. Come on, now, Mr. Peiffer, come on!" and between them they led away the poor white-haired old madman, who looked back as he passed me, and whispered: "Pitch 'em in the fountain, I'll get the Q's to-morrow!"

There, too, was the old, old grave-yard that the city had crept up to, cautiously at first, then finding them quite harmless—the quiet dead—had stretched out brick and mortar arms and circled it about. A network of streets had tangled about it, and turbulent life dashed against its very gates on the outside, but inside there was a great green silence.

How well I knew the quiet place—the far, damp corner where, in lifting bodies for removal to a new cemetery, one had been found petrified; the giant sycamore-tree that guarded the grave of a mighty Indian chief, the lonely hemlock blackened nook where a grave had been cruelly robbed, the most expensive tomb, the most beautiful tomb, the oldest tomb, I knew them all. But the special attraction for me was a plain white headstone that happened to bear my own name. Whenever my mother boxed my ears, or was too hasty in her judgment to be quite just, I went over to my silent city and sat down and looked at the tombstone, and thought if it were really mine how sorry my mother would feel for what she had done. And when I had, in imagination, seen her tears and remorse, I would begin to feel sorry for her and to think she was punished enough, especially if it was rather late, and the shadows of tombstones and trees all fell long upon the sunny walks, all pointing like warning black fingers toward the gate. Then, indeed, I was apt to forgive my mother and flee to her—and supper.

And so, up and down, smiling and sighing, I went, taking congé of the city that had been home to me all my life, save just two years. I even paused at the little old cottage whose gate was the only one I had ever swung on, and I had hated the swinging, but I was six and was passionately enamoured of a small person named Johnnie, who lived there and who wore blue aprons; so I swung on the gate with him and to please him, and then, being like most of his sex, fickle of fancy, he deserted me for a new red dress worn by another. And when he spilled milk on it (his mother sold milk) and spoiled its glory, she scratched his face, and he wanted to return to me; but my love was dead, so dead I wouldn't even accept sips of milk out of the little pails he had to carry around to customers. And, so cruel is life, there I stood and laughed as I took leave of the small gate.

At last all was done, my trunks were gone, I sat in my empty room waiting for the carriage. I had to make my journey quite alone, since my mother was to join me only when I had found a place to settle in. I was very sad. Mr. Ellsler was ill, for the first time since I had known him, and I had been over to his home, three or four blocks away, and bade good-by to Mrs. Ellsler and gentle little Annie—the other children were out. And finding I had no fear of contagion from a bad throat, she showed me into Mr. Ellsler's room. I was shocked to see him so wasted and so weak, and not being used to sickness I was frightened about him. Judge, then, my amazement, when, hearing a knock on my door and calling, "Come in," instead of a bell-boy, there entered, pale and almost staggering, Mr. Ellsler. A rim of red above his white muffler betrayed the bandaged throat, and his poor voice was but a husky whisper.

"I could not help it," he said; "you were placed under my care once by your mother. You were a child then, and though you are pleased to consider yourself a woman now, I could not bear to think of your leaving the city, at this saddest hour of the day, to begin a lonely journey, without some old friend being by for a parting God-speed."

I was inexpressibly grateful, even through all my fright at his rashness; but he had yet another surprise for me. He said: "I wanted, too, Clara, to make you a little present, to give you a keepsake that would last long and would remind you daily of—of—er the years you have passed in my theatre."

He drew a small box from his pocket. "A good girl and a good actress," he said, "needs and ought to own a—" he touched a spring, the box flew open—"a good watch," he finished.

I gave a cry, I could not realize it was for me—I could not! I clasped my hands in admiration instead of taking it, so, with his thin, sick man's fingers, he took it from its case and dropped it in my lap. I caught it then, and "Oh!" and again "Oh!" was all that I could cry, while I pressed it to my cheek and gloated over it.

Literally, I could not speak, such an agony of delight in its beauty, of pride in its possession, of satisfaction in a need supplied, of gratitude tremendous and surprise immeasurable were more than I could find words for. If you are inclined to think this exaggeration, remember how poor I was—had always been; remember, too, there were no cheap watches then; this was of the best make and had a chain attached as well; then think how great was my need of it for the theatre, day and night, and for traveling. By my utter inability to earn such a thing measure my joyful surprise at receiving it, a gift.

It was one of the red-letter days of my life, the day I owned a watch. My thanks must have been sadly jumbled and broken, but my pride and pleasure made Mr. Ellsler laugh, and then the carriage was there, and laughter stilled into a silent, close hand-clasp. As I opened the door of the dusty old hack, I glanced up and saw the first star prick brightly through the evening sky. Then the hoarse voice said, "God bless you!" and I had left my first manager.

As I stepped out of the carriage at the depot, glancing up again I saw the sky sown thick with stars, like a field of heavenly daisies. I smiled a little at the thought, then suddenly drew my watch to see the time, and hurried to my train. Thus grateful for a kindly send-off, made happy by a gift, I turned my back upon the old, safe life and brightly, hopefully faced the new. For I was young, and therefore confident; and it is surely for the old world's need that God has made youth so.

It is a deep humiliation to relate my first experience in Cincinnati, but for reasons I set it down.

A friend of mine, who hailed from Cincinnati and who wished to serve me, had said: "One thing I think I can do for you, friend Clara, I can save you the weariness and annoyance of a long search in a strange city for board. My wife and I were never so comfortable in our lives before as we were at the house of a Mrs. Scott. She is a gentlewoman, therefore she never pries, never gossips, never 'just runs in a moment,' when you want to study a 'part.' Her charges are reasonable, the table a little close, perhaps, but the cooking perfect. You and your mother would suit her demands as to regularity of habits, quiet conduct, etc., completely, and going there so early in September you will stand a good chance of securing a room. Try for 'ours'—it was so sunny and bright." And I, delighted at such a prospect, looked upon my letter of introduction as a very valuable document—a sort of character from my last place, and early on Monday morning went forth from my temporarily sheltering hotel to find Mrs. Scott and beg her to take me in on the word of her boarders of a year ago.

I found the house easily, but, modest as was its exterior, its rich interior sent my heart down rapidly—it was going to be away beyond my salary I decided. Yet after a, to me, most bewildering interview, I found myself inspecting the big sunny room, and shrinking at the thought of my rough trunks coming in contact with such a handsome carpet. Mrs. Scott had remarked, casually, that she had put her earnings back on the house, as a pure matter of business, and I was radiant when she named her price for the room, and hastily engaging it, I started out at once to order my trunks taken there and to telegraph mother to come.

As I descended the steps I could not help humming a little tune. A policeman strolled across the street toward me, and I had a hazy notion that he had been there when I went in. As I reached the pavement he stepped up, and holding out to me a handkerchief, palpably his own, asked, while looking at me closely, if it was mine.

I was indignant, and I answered, sharply: "It is not mine—as you very well know!"

He laughed rather sheepishly, and said: "Well, you are not stupid, if you are innocent," then asked: "Are you a stranger here?"

I turned back toward the house I had just left, then paused as I said, angrily: "I have a mind to go back and ask Mrs. Scott to come out with me to protect me from the impertinence of the police!"

"Who?" he asked, with wide-open, wondering eyes, "you will go back to who?"

"To Mrs. Scott," I snapped.

"Why," said he, "there's no Mrs. Scott there."

"No?" I questioned satirically. "No? Well, as I have just engaged board from Mrs. Scott, I venture to differ with you."

"Good Lord, Miss," the man said, "Mrs. William Scott's been dead these nine months or more. That's no place for honest people now. Why—why, we're watchin' the house this moment, hoping to catch that woman's jail-bird son, who has broken jail in Louisville—don't look so white, Miss!"

"But—but," I whispered, "I—I was sent here by a friend—I—I have engaged a room there! Oh, what shall I do?"

"That's all right, Miss," reassuringly answered the policeman, "I'll give up the room for you. You ain't the only one that has come here expecting to find Mrs. Scott in the house. You don't need to go back to the door;" and the theatre being in full view, in an agony of humiliation and terror, I flung myself into its friendly, just-opened office, where Mr. Macaulay presently found me shaking like a leaf and almost unable to make plain my experience.

He was furious, and finding my name was mentioned in the letter of introduction to Mrs. Scott, and that "Mrs. Scott" had retained it, he called the policeman and together they went to the house and demanded the letter back. It was given up, but most unwillingly, as the woman, with the superstition of all gambling people, looked upon it as a luck-breeder, a mascot; and an hour later, by Mr. Macaulay's aid, I had found two wee rooms, whose carpets would welcome my trunks as hiders of holes—rooms that were dull, even dingy, but had nevertheless securely sheltered honest poverty for long years past, and could do as much for years to come.

I mention this unpleasant incident simply to show how utterly unexpected are some of the pitfalls that make dangerous the pathway of honest girlhood. To show, too, that utter ignorance of evil is in itself a danger. The interview that bewildered me would have been, for instance, a danger signal to my mother, who would, too, having seen how the richness of furniture contradicted outside shabbiness, have had her suspicions aroused. I noted that fact, but not knowing of gambling being unlawful and secretly carried on, my observation was of no service to me, as it suggested nothing. Ignorance of the existence of evil may sometimes become the active foe of innocence.

No one learned of the unpleasant experience, so I was spared disagreeable comment; and, sending for my mother to join me, I devoted myself to preparations of my opening night.

The meeting with strangers, which I had greatly dreaded, passed off so easily, even so pleasantly, as to surprise me. Everyone offered a kind word of greeting, and all the women expressed their sympathy because I had to open in so poorly dressed a part. That troubled me very little, however.

The character was that of a country girl (Cicely) in some old comedy, whose name I have forgotten. She wore just one gown—a black and white print, as she was in mourning for her old, farmer father. A rustic wench, a milk-maid come up to "Lun'un-town," she had one speech that was a trial for any woman to have to speak. It was not as brutally expressed as are many of the speeches given to rustics in the old English comedies—but it was the double-entendre that made it coarse.

Some of the ladies were speaking with me of the matter, and the "old woman" suggested that I just mumble the words. I said I could not well do that, as it was a part of the principal scene of the play.

"Well," declared another, "I should hang my head and let the house see that I was ashamed of the speech."

I said nothing, but I thought that would be a most inartistic breaking away from the part of the rustic Cicely, and a dragging in of scandalized Miss Morris.

The girl was supposed to make the speech through blundering ignorance, she alone not seeing its significance; and to my idea there was but one way to deliver it, and that certainly was not with a hanging head and shamefaced manner, thus showing perfect, if disapproving, knowledge of its double meaning.

When the opening night came a pleasant little thing happened to me. As I entered with straw hat tied under chin and bundle in hand, I received a modest little reception, what would about equal the slight raising of a hat in passing a woman in a corridor; but the moment I had spoken the first insignificant speech the house gave me as hearty a greeting as any leading woman could wish for.

I was startled and much confused for a few moments, but very pleased and grateful withal, yet when I came off, Mr. Macaulay's pleasure seemed twice as great as mine, and as I laughingly told him so, he said: "Well, now I'm going to make a confession. Your letters gave me an impression of—of—well, you are entirely unlike your letters—you are smaller, and you look even younger than you really are. There isn't the very faintest suggestion of the actress in your manner, and—and—to be honest, I was a bit frightened over the engagement I had made. Then your having to open in this insignificant part was against you. But they are no fools out there, my girl. They have found you out already. Your eyes and voice alone won that welcome, and I'd not be afraid to wager something now that the last curtain falls to-night upon a new favorite."

I was greatly pleased, but those broad lines were still hanging over me, still disturbing me.

At last the scene arrived. I gave the inquiring speech, with its wretched double meaning, clearly and plainly, looking squarely and honestly into the eyes of the person I addressed—the result was described as follows by a morning paper:

"That one speech proved the newcomer an actress of superior quality. Clearly and simply given, the great guffaw that instantly responded to the double-entendre had scarcely risen, when the girl's perfect honesty, her wide-eyed innocence, so impressed the audience that applause broke from every part of the house. It was the most dramatic moment of the evening, for that outburst was not merely approbation for the actress, it was homage to the woman."

So it came to pass that Mr. Macaulay's words came true—the curtain fell upon a favorite, by grace of the warm and kindly hearts of the Cincinnatians, who were quick to see merits and ever ready to forgive errors.

The Hebrew citizens, who are enthusiastic and most generous patrons of the theatre, became especially fond of me, so much so indeed that the company christened me "Rebecca," in jesting allusion to their favor, of which I was nevertheless very proud, for better judges of matters theatrical it would be hard to find.

When my mother arrived, we settled down in our little rooms, where my trunks, which had to be opened every day for the nightly change of costume, had to stand one on top of another in order to make room for an old battle-scarred piano that I had hired.

I do not know its maker's name—no one knows—which was well for that person, because his act in constructing such a thing placed him in the criminal classes. It seemed to be a cross between a coffin and a billiard-table, and there was just enough left of its rubber cover to make an evil smell in the room.

Had it not been for the generosity of the leader of the orchestra (Mr. Navoni) I could not have enjoyed the luxury of even a few music lessons, but he saw my willingness to learn—to practise when possible, and loving music rapturously himself, he took a generous delight in helping others to the knowledge he had such a store of. Therefore, for a ridiculously small price, just enough, he said, to properly mark our relations as master and pupil, he introduced me to my notes and lines and ledger-lines, too (confound them!), and accidentals and sharps (which I hated) and flats (which I liked), and I developed a great affection for c, because I could always find it, while I hate a to this hour because of the trouble it gave me so long ago.

One thing I am sure of, had anyone awakened me suddenly from a deep sleep at that time I would instantly have exclaimed: "One and two and three and." Mr. Navoni and his wife had the room directly over ours; of course I knew every loud sound we made must penetrate to his room, and as I could conceive of nothing more maddening than to have to listen to a beginner's one, two, three—one, two, three, I tried to practise when he was out, which was difficult, as our hours were the same. Then one day, knowing he was composing a march for a special occasion, I closed the piano and determined I would not disturb him with any noise of mine.

Upstairs, then, Mr. Navoni sat, rumpled as to hair, fiery as to eye, with violin on table and pen in hand. He hummed a little, tried one or two bars on the violin, then savagely threw a few notes of ink on to his ruled paper. Then he hummed a little, and seemed to listen, jotted down a note or two, listened attentively, and then burst out: "Do you hear a sound of practice from Miss Morris's room?"

"No, dear," gently replied Mrs. Navoni, "she doesn't want to disturb you at your work, she——"

But a burst of wrath stopped her. Mr. Navoni was clattering down-stairs and pounding on our door: "What does this mean? Get you to that devilish bad piano and do your scales—scales, mind you—let the exercises wait till the last! Interrupt me? Love I not music! nothing is sweeter to me than the 'one, two, three' of the beginner—if the beginner is not a fool—if the beginner counts the 'one, two, three' correctly! Damn! yes, I say damn! look at the time lost! afraid to disturb me? How the devil am I to compose that march they want with this room still as the dead? Now I go back, and if you don't do those scales, all smooth and even, and the exercises rightly timed, you—well, you know what you'll get! I can hear, even if I am composing. So you get to work, quick now! before I get back to my table!"

And he tore off again, while, with clammy fingers, I sat down to the wretched old piano, that was showing its teeth at me in a senile grin, and feebly and uncertainly began to wobble up and down the keyboard.

Mrs. Navoni afterward told me that when her husband returned to his work he hummed to himself a few moments, jotted down a few notes, listened to the sound of the rattling old piano, and, smiling and nodding, remarked: "Now I can do something—one, two, three—one, two, three—that's right. I couldn't compose a bar with her wasting a precious hour down there. She keeps good time, eh, doesn't she? Now I'll give the boys something that will move their feet for them!" and he returned to the march.

The thing which I was to get if I failed to practise correctly was so unusual that I feel I must explain it. Mr. Navoni wore an artificial foot and leg of the cumbrous type then offered to the afflicted, and in the privacy of his own room he used to remove the burdensome thing and lay it on a chair by the couch on which he rested or read or wrote, and when I, down-stairs, made a first mistake in my practice, he growled and kicked viciously with his "for-true" leg, while a second blunder would make him seize his store-leg and pound the floor. Then when I began again he would whack the correct time with it with such emphasis that bits of my ceiling would come rattling down about me and the gas-fixture threatened not to remain a fixture.

Another trick of his was to bring down his violin with him. How my heart sank when I saw it, and, my lesson over, he requested me to play such or such an exercise: "And keep to your own business, and leave my business to me, if you please, Miss. Now!"

I was then expected to go over and over that exercise and keep perfect time, while he stood behind me and improvised on the violin, growing more and more distracting every moment, and if that led my attention away from my one, two, three, what a crack I got across the top of my ear from his fiddle-bow, and a sharp order to: "Go back—go back! one, two, three; one, two, three! Cry by and by, but now play! One, two, three!"

I should have thought myself a hopeless case, and given up, had I not one morning overheard him boasting to some of the musicians: "That I was a good enough leading woman, he supposed, but it was as a piano pupil that I really counted for something. Why," he cried, "she has the most perfect ear, and such steadiness—a whole band-wagon of instruments turned loose on her wouldn't make her lose time!"

I smiled and felt of my even then burning ear, but still his boast encouraged me to return to my scales, which were wofully interrupted by the necessity I experienced of clawing up with my nails several old keys that were too weak to rise again having once been pressed down.

When Mr. Navoni played, and he came to one of those tired-out ivories, he put a damn in the place of the absent note, but for obvious reasons I could not do that. But Mr. Navoni was an earnest, determined, and enthusiastic teacher, and I remember him gratefully and respectfully.

The widow of the boarding-house differs from the widow of the Testament in that the boarding-house widow's cruse of oil seems always "just out," and her meal at a like low ebb. Neither my mother nor myself were used to luxuries; we expected little, and, truth to tell, we got it. To say we were nearly always hungry would be putting things quite mildly, but we were together! and so 'twas better to feel a bit "gone" under the belt than to be filled to repletion and live apart.

I worked hard at all times, and five nights out of seven I had to study till far on toward morning. The Saturday brought me a double performance, and left me a wreck; thus I thought I had a right to a bit of a treat on Sunday; and I can see the important air mother unconsciously assumed as she went forth on her secret errand—secret that no offence might be given to the economical landlady.

When the matinée was over I brought home my personal offering for our next day's comfort and pleasure—a copy of an illustrated weekly paper and five cents' worth of candy, always something hard that would last us long while we read. Thus on Saturday night, on the sill of the back window, there stood a small can of oysters, while in the top drawer rested a box marked handkerchiefs, but which held crackers, beside it a folded paper, and on top of that the wee package of candy.

I had a membership at the library on the corner, so we had books, too, thank heaven! I have always been a fairly regular church-goer; in Cincinnati the limitations of my wardrobe would have made me conspicuous. I had but one street dress in the world, and constant wear in rain or shine made it a very shabby affair. In novels the heroine who has but one gown is always so exquisitely gloved and shod, and her veil and neck-wear are so immaculately fresh, that no one notices the worn dress; but in real life it's just the gloves and shoes and veils and ruffles that cost the most money, yet their absence stamps you ill-bred in the eyes of other women. Therefore I knew the inside of but one church in Cincinnati, "Christ's Episcopal," and only knew that in the spring, when I had fluttered forth in new gown and gloves and things; so Sundays were given over to a late breakfast, a little reading in the Bible, a good long reading of secular matter, sweetened by candy, a calm acceptance (that was puzzling to the Navonis) of a shadowy dinner, a short walk if weather permitted, then, oh, then! a locked door, a small tea-pot, a tiny saucepan (we had not the bliss of owning a chafing-dish), and presently we sat enjoying, to the last spoonful, a hot and delicious stew, a pot of tea, that brought to mind many stories and made old jokes dance forth with renewed youth, and kept us loitering over our small banquet in a quite disgraceful way. Then back to our novels again till bed-time, and next day, all fresh and rested, I began my "one and two and three and" before breakfast, and thus won approval from Navoni and started a new week's work under fair auspices.