great tragedian. Punctuality would have been derogatory to the dignity of Mr. Tennent. To cause his co-laborers as much annoyance as possible was to impress them with a due sense of his own import

ance.

Mr. Belton saluted Stella more cordially than on a previous occasion. He was gratified to find that Mr. Oakland's presence was not considered indispensable. Fisk bestowed on her a familiar nod. The stage-manager and actors curtailed their civilities to the utmost brevity. The profession never pay homage in anticipation. Miss Rosenvelt's assumed position in the theatre as yet lacked the stamp of public recognition. All novices are looked upon as pretenders until success proclaims their legitimacy.

Mr. Belton chanced to be called away. Stella was left standing in the centre of the stage, beside Mattie, looking wretchedly uncomfortable and out of place.

Mrs. Fairfax, who had just entered, joined her at once, and ordered Fisk to bring a chair.

"You will learn the ways of a theatre, little by little, my dear. Every one feels strange at first." She placed the chair beside the manager's table. “You can sit here or in the green-room, just as you please. It is the privilege of stars to take their seat on the stage and watch the rehearsal. The rest of the company are not allowed this liberty. How flushed you look! Will you not be more comfortable if you lay aside your bonnet? You will rehearse better."

Stella willingly removed her hat, for even its light weight seemed to press painfully on her throbbing brain.

Mrs. Fairfax hinted that Mattie had better keep a little more in the background. She might subject. herself to reproof from the austere stage-manager. Mattie, at a word, retreated behind the scenes. But her honest, anxious face was constantly visible, peeping round one of the wings, and watching Stella.

After half an hour's delay, Mr. Tennent made a pompous entrance. The stage echoed with his heavy tread. His deep, sonorous voice, as he issued some despotic orders, his imperious bearing, his athletic frame, cast in one of nature's rudest moulds, inspired Stella with a feeling akin to awe.

Mr. Belton presented him.

Sorry you've got me a novice! Detest acting with amateurs!" was his audible observation, as he eyed the young girl with supercilious scrutiny. "Poor Lydia! we shan't soon see her match again." He turned on his heel without addressing a single syllable to the discomfited novice.

"And he is to enact Virginius!" thought Stella to herself. "How will I ever imagine myself his daughter? If he had only spoken one word to me, it would make such a difference!"

Rehearsal commenced. To Stella's great surprise, Mr. Tennent rattled over the language of his rôle in the same senseless manner as the other actors, pausing now and then to explain his particular "business,” and ejaculating "Brute!" in an under-tone, every time some unfortunate individual failed to comprehend him.

Stella summoned all her energy, and successfully assumed a bearing which might have been mistaken

for composure. She went through her allotted duties without hesitation, and apparently undismayed. Mrs. Fairfax congratulated her on her newly-acquired self-possession. Mr. Tennent occasionally instructed her in "business," but without unbending from his stately demeanor.

As Virginia is seen no more after the fourth act, Stella was at liberty to absent herself before rehearsal concluded. She returned to the chair upon which she had placed her bonnet. Mr. Finch was unconsciously sitting upon both. He laughed unconcernedly, and made a clumsy attempt to pull the hat into shape, but uttered no apology. Then, thrusting it into her extended hand, he said:

"No use of crying over spilled milk! If you don't put your foot in it to-night, and make a failure, you can afford to buy yourself twice as fine a kickshaw as this."

Stella's mind was too much engrossed to dwell upon trifles, but she recoiled from contact with coarse natures. It was less mortification to be forced to wear the damaged hat through the streets than to be treated with such rude indifference.

She was passing out behind the scenes, when Mrs. Fairfax once more joined her.

"Call upon me for any assistance you may need this evening. You will, of course, have the star dressing-room.' The luxury of an apartment to one's self is reserved for stars only. The room in which I dress, with four other ladies, adjoins yours. You had better come early, - at least an hour and a half before the curtain rises, can walk about, after you are dressed,

so that you and collect

your thoughts. Don't forget that I will assist you with pleasure."

Mrs. Fairfax's partiality for her profession, as well as her native kindness of heart, interested her in a novice who apparently possessed histrionic qualifications of a rare order. The compassionate actress stretched out a loving hand to this young girl, whose uncertain feet were forcing their way within the briery circle which bounded that miniature world, a theatre.

Stella was thanking her new friend with much warmth, when a ballet-girl timidly approached. Her face was grief-worn and sickly, but of touching loveliness. Oppression looked out from her meek eyes. Her coarse and insufficient garb betokened penury. Her attenuated fingers were rapidly knitting lace, and her needles never ceased their motion as she spoke.

May Floy carry your basket, miss?"
My basket?'

"The basket with your dresses. Floy carries all the baskets."

Stella looked inquiringly at Mrs. Fairfax.

"You should have a basket for your costumes. A basket is lighter and more convenient than a trunk. This is Floy's sister. He takes charge of all our baskets. Poor fellow! we ought to help him as much as we can." She added, in an under-tone, "The unfortunate boy is half-witted, but very honest."

"Mattie shall purchase me a basket. Let your brother call for it, by all means," said Stella.

"And tell him to be sure to call early, Perdita," added Mrs. Fairfax.

O, never fear! Thank you, kindly, Miss Rosenvelt." Still knitting as she walked away, Perdita returned to the green-room.

"That poor girl's history is a sad one," said Mrs. Fairfax; "but, alas! there is an abundance of sad histories in all theatres. Her father is now the captain of the supernumeraries. I suppose you hardly know what that means. The captain is a sort of leader who directs and drills the sups. His grade in the theatre, as you may imagine, is rather low; yet I remember him a handsome, ambitious, promising actor. But he was unfortunate, or, rather, he imagined himself unlucky, and was possessed with the idea that all the world conspired against him. He said that he was always kept down in every theatre where he engaged; that managers never afforded him an opportunity of exhibiting the talents he was confident of possessing. A man of violent passions, he was constantly falling into disgrace by his disputes with his fellow-actors. He was discharged from theatre after theatre. He became dispirited, morose, and finally abandoned himself to the control of the demon Intemperance. Intoxication was nightly 'the prologue to his sleep.' His wife was second walking lady in this theatre; a gentle, inoffensive being, most unfitly mated. She died a few years ago, leaving two children, - Perdita, and Florizel. So the mother called them, after her favorite characters in Shakspeare's 'Winter's Tale.' One day, the father, in a paroxysm of ungovernable rage, locked up little Floy in a dark cellar. The child was left shrieking with terror, while the father lost all remembrance at the neighboring tavern. He returned at midnight,