my courage fails me. I conjure up the dread and horror of such an act which will, for some hours, place me in our family vault. The failure of my Romeo to return, the fearful sights which must meet my vision, if, waking before he arrives, I find myself alone in that ancient sepulchre, are startling thoughts. I become frantic, wild; my mind loses its quality to think, to reason, to understand, and I see before me now only the grim ghost of my dead cousin, Tybalt. With trembling hands I raise the phial to my burning lips, my eyes still fixed glassily upon my cousin's shade; and then the deadly potion takes my senses, and I fall prone upon the Venetian rug near the window of my room.

My head hit something hard, and a foolish bump not only brought stars to my vision but also made me see again, with unflattering reality, the tree, the brook, and the sward. Yet now there was another sound mingling distinctly with the gurgling of the little stream, coming from the direction of the opposite bank; the sound of the clapping of hands and a voice crying "Bravo! bravo!"

I sprang to my feet, startled beyond measure, only to realize that my hair had become loosened from its ribbon and had fallen in a mass over my shoulders, that I was glowing and panting as if with physical exercise, that my dress was awry, and that altogether, I must present a most disheveled appearance. I looked, however, in the direction from whence the sound of the voice had come and saw a

man standing not twenty rods from me, smiling and still clapping his hands.

Crimson with chagrin at being caught at my histrionic flights, I stammered:

"You-you-heard?"

"The scene with the friar and the potion scene," he answered easily, and something in his voice sounded familiar. I gazed at him anxiously and thought I recognized his face; only he looked like an every day sort of city man, while the being he had seemed to resemble appeared as if it had stepped from a painting.

"You know the play?" I faltered, still trying to place him in my mind.

"I have the honor to play Mercutio in Miss Brilliant's production of the piece," he replied with a smile.

Of course, so he did. But somehow I wished he had not told me. It seemed to take something away from the glorious dream I had been living for the last few hours; not that he was bad looking, far from it, but he was dressed in a suit of wool, just such a suit as one saw in the clothing stores in the city, a dull brown suit with a stiff white collar and a black ascot tie. Mercutio had been so radiant, so boisterously lovable in velvets and silks of scarlet, green and gold.

"Our train doesn't leave until noon," he went on in a matter-of-fact tone, "and I thought I would take a little stroll across country. I used to be quite an

athlete at college, but traveling about, as we strollers perforce must, one gets but little chance for exercise. Were you ever on the stage?"

I gasped as if some of the cold water of the brook had suddenly been dashed in my face.

"No, Oh, no indeed!" I said, "Why, last night was the first time I ever saw a great actress, or one of Shakespeare's plays."

"Really?" And he elevated his heavy eye-brows. "Then why don't you go on? I should say from what scenes I heard and saw you do, that you had good stuff in you."

"What's that?" I asked innocently.

He laughed, not unpleasantly, and said, "Why talent, the divine afflatus, the capacity to portray emotions and depict characters; in other words, histrionic ability and dramatic temperament."

"Oh, do you think so?" I almost breathed, afraid to take my eyes from him lest he vanish into a cloud of smoke like the genii in fairy books who tell you something you can do to find baskets of diamonds and then disappear before you have caught the right word to say or which road you turn down if you decide to take up the search. "Such a thing never entered my head; you know I was only trying just now to see what the sensation must be to play at being someone else-and-well, it was glorious. Do you really think I could?"

"Certain of it," he answered lightly. "Why don't you go to New York and try?"

"I-I wouldn't know what to do," I faltered, not daring to let such a possibility enter my mind.

"Just go to New York," he advised, "and see the managers and tell them you want an engagement. You would have to begin with a small part, perhaps play small parts for some time, but if you improved you would soon be a leading woman and in time, perhaps, a star.”

I gasped again and caught at the massive trunk of the tree for support. I felt ready to faint with joy.

"Oh, if I only could!" I murmured. "But it is too wonderful. Such a thing never could be for me."

"Nonsense," said my stranger, "every one has a right to the very best life can give. Try it. I think you'll succeed. At any rate it's a pretty race, and the best horse jumps the highest hurdle, you know. You have as much right to an inning as any one. Try it. Now, is this the way to town, or will I have to vault that high fence?"

I directed him to a path, and tipping his hat, he left me, calling back again over his shoulder:

"Take my advice and try it."

I was sixteen and an orphan, living on the bounty of relatives. In another year or two, it was understood in our household, I would be expected to earn my own living or, at least, something to pay my board and clothe myself until such time as I might marry. This latter state of my existence I put off as vague and distant, and the "carn-my-own-living" part became paramount. This spring morning,

standing beneath the old chestnut tree in our meadow, I seemed to have had the whole problem solved for me. If earn my livelihood I must, why not do it in the way most acceptable to my tastes and inclinations? Could a more beautiful life be lived than that which surrounded the actor; the aesthetic environment of poetry, music, literature; the daily association with artists, with bright literary minds, meeting, mingling only with that which is refined, gentle, uplifting, and ennobling? For would not Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Shiller, Goethe, Lytton, be one's constant companions, as one lived and impersonated the characters of these great masters?

And then the wonderful opportunity for breadth of education afforded by travel, for players are of the family of strollers! To see one's country from its great cities, its historic points, its huge industries down to its hamlets and farms and fields; to move over its vastness year after year until, at last, one would know by heart almost every hill and dale, river, city, and town of its interesting geography! Yes, here, truly, was an inviting, reasonable profession for a woman, a chance to strive, to work at something beautifully congenial and wonderfully broadening in its aspects.

"Talent," I had come to think, was the one requisite, the one quality which constituted the open sesame to opportunity in the world of art, and this man, himself an artist, associate of a great star, had just now told me I possessed that magic password.