rcles. She would have
learned refinement of manners from them. Such brutalities would have
shocked and driven away the boyish, clean-hearted _Armand_. Her very
disease made her exquisitely sensitive to music, to beauty, to sentiment.
If she repelled, it was with cynicism, sarcasm, her evident knowledge of
the world. She allured men by the very refinement of her vice. And as I
paused to take breath, Mr. Shook's bass voice was heard for the first
time, as he asked, conclusively: "Whom can we get for _Armand_ on such
short notice?"

I turned piteously to Mr. Palmer: "The critics"--I gasped and stopped. He
smiled reassuringly and said: "Don't be frightened, Miss Morris, they
will never attack a piece of work offered in charity. Just do your best
and remember it's only for once."

"Dear Lord! only for once!" and with wet cheeks I made my way home, with
a copy of the detested play in my hand. Late that evening I was notified
that Mr. Mayo would play _Armand_.

I had not one dress suited for the part. I knew I should look like a
school-mistress in one act and a stage _ingenue_ in another. I had a
ball-room gown, but it was not a suitable color. I should only be correct
when I got into my night-dress and loose wrapper in the last act. Actress
fashion, I got my gowns together first, and then sat down with my string
of amber beads to study--I never learn anything so quickly as when I have
something to occupy my fingers, and my string of amber beads has assisted
me over many and many an hour of mental labor--a pleasanter custom than
that of walking and studying aloud, I think, and surely more agreeable to
one's near neighbors.

The rehearsing of that play was simply purgatorial. We went over two acts
on one stage one day and over three acts on another stage the next day,
and we shrieked our lines out against the tumult of creaking winches, of
hammering and sawing, of running and ordering--for every stage was filled
at the rear with rushing carpenters and painters. Yet those were the only
rehearsals that unfortunate play received for the benefit performance,
and, as a result, we were all abroad in the first act, in particular, and
I remember I spent a good part of my time in trying to induce the
handsome young English woman who did _Olympe_ to keep out of my chair and
to go to and from the piano at the right moment.

The house was packed to the danger-point, the play being given at what
was then called "The Lyceum," which Char