rough the play, "Wine Works Wonders," in his satins and his
laces--young to the heart--young with the immortal youth of the true
artist.

Both these girls spoke plain prose well enough, and always had their
share of the parts in modern plays; but, as all was grist to my
individual mill, most of the blankverse and Shakespearean small
characters came to me. Nor was I the lucky girl they believed me; there
was no luck about it. My small success can be explained in two
words--extra work. When they studied their parts they were contented if
they could repeat their lines perfectly in the quiet of their rooms, and
made no allowance for possible accidents or annoyances with power to
confuse the mind and so cause loss of memory and ensuing shame. But I was
a careful young person, and would not trust even my own memory without
first taking every possible precaution. Therefore the repeating of my
lines correctly in my room was but the beginning of my study of them. In
crossing the crowded street I suddenly demanded of myself my lines. At
the table, when all were chatting, I again made sudden demand for the
same. If on either occasion my heart gave a jump and my memory failed to
present the exact word, I knew I was not yet perfect, and I would repeat
those lines until, had the very roof blown off the theatre at night, I
should not have missed one. Then only could I turn my attention to the
acting of them--oh, bless you, yes! I quite thought I was acting, and at
all events I was doing the next best thing, which was trying to act.

But a change was coming to me, an experience was approaching which I
cannot explain to myself, neither has anyone else explained it for me;
but I mention it because it made such a different thing of dramatic life
for me. Aye, such a difficult thing as well. Looking back to that time I
see that all my childhood, all my youth, was crowded into that first year
on the stage. There I first knew liberty of speech, freedom of motion.
There I shared in the general brightness and seemed to live by right
divine, not by the grudging permission of some task-mistress of my
mother. I had had no youth before, for in what should have been babyhood
I had been a troubled little woman, most wise in misery. In freedom my
crushed spirits rose with a bound. The mimicry, the adaptability of
childhood asserted themselves--I pranced about the stage happily but
thoughtlessly.

It seems to me I was like a blind puppy, born into wa