gallant to the
life in her black velvet court dress. I had to enter down some steps from
a great stone doorway. I stood, ready to go on. I wore a mantilla with my
muslin. I held a closed fan in my hand. My heart seemed to suffocate
me--I thought, stupidly, "Why don't I pray?" but I could not think of a
single word. I heard the faint music that preceded my entrance--a mad
panic seized me. I turned and dashed toward the street-door. Mr. Ellsler,
who had just made his exit, caught me by the skirts. "Are you mad, girl?"
he cried; "go back--quick--quick! I tell you--there's your cue!"

Next moment, tremulous but smiling, I was descending the steps to meet
the counterfeit lover awaiting me. My head was on his breast and my arm
stealing slowly about his neck before I knew that the closed fan in my
hand was crushed into fragments and marks of blood showing between my
clinched fingers. My first lines were simply recited, without meaning,
then the tender words and courtly manners aroused my imagination. The
glamour of the stage was upon me. The frightened actress ceased to
exist--I was the Spanish girl whose long-mourned lover had returned to
her; and there was something lacking in the greeting, some tone of the
voice, some glance of the eye seemed strange, alien. There was more of
ardor, less of tenderness than before. My lips trembled; suddenly I heard
the veiled, pathetic tone I had all day striven for in vain, and
curiously enough it never struck me that it was my voice--no! it was the
Spanish girl who spoke. My heart leaped up in my throat with a great
pity, tears rushed to my eyes, fell upon my cheeks. There was
applause--of course, was not Miss St. Clair there? Suspicion arose in my
mind--grew. I bethought me of the saving of my life on that stolen day
passed in the forest long ago. I took my lover's hand and with pretty
wiles drew him into the moonlight. Then swiftly stripping up the lace
ruffles, showed his arm smooth and unblemished by any scar, and with the
cry: "You are not Pascal de la Garde!" stood horror-stricken.

The moment the curtain fell Miss St. Clair sprang to me, and taking my
face between her hands, she cried: "You would move a heart of stone!" She
wiped her eyes, and turning to her husband, said: "Good God! she's a
marvel!"

"No, no!" he snuffled, "not yet, Sallie; but she's a marvel in embryo!"
He patted me on the shoulder. "You have a fortune somewhere between your
throat and your eyes, my girl--you