tian flame to be kindled.--Curtain.

This was a portion of the programme for the evening, as arranged behind
the scenes. The first part went off with wonderful _eclat_, and at its
close there were loud cries for Pocahontas. She appeared for a moment.
Bouquets were flung to her; and a wreath, which one of the young ladies
had expected for herself in another part, was tossed upon the stage, and
laid at her feet. The curtain fell.

"Put the wreath on her for the next _tableau_," some of them whispered,
just as the curtain was going to rise, and one of the girls hastened to
place it upon her head.

The disappointed young lady could not endure it, and, in a spasm of
jealous passion, sprang at Myrtle, snatched it from her head, and
trampled it under her feet at the very instant the curtain was rising.
With a cry which some said had the blood-chilling tone of an Indian's
battle-shriek, Myrtle caught the knife up, and raised her arm against
the girl who had thus rudely assailed her. The girl sank to the ground,
covering her eyes in her terror. Myrtle, with her arm still lifted, and
the blade glistening in her hand, stood over her, rigid as if she had
been suddenly changed to stone. Many of those looking on thought all
this was a part of the show, and were thrilled with the wonderful
acting. Before those immediately around her had had time to recover
from the palsy of their fright, Myrtle had flung the knife away from
her, and was kneeling, her head bowed and her hands crossed upon her
breast. The audience went into a rapture of applause as the curtain came
suddenly down; but Myrtle had forgotten all but the dread peril she had
just passed, and was thanking God that his angel--her own protecting
spirit, as it seemed to her--had stayed the arm which a passion such as
her nature had never known, such as she believed was alien to her truest
self, had lifted with deadliest purpose. She alone knew how extreme the
danger had been. "She meant to scare her,--that's all," they said. But
Myrtle tore the eagle's feathers from her hair, and stripped off her
colored beads, and threw off her painted robe. The metempsychosis was
far too real for her to let her wear the semblance of the savage from
whom, as she believed, had come the lawless impulse at the thought of
which her soul recoiled in horror.

"Pocahontas has got a horrid headache," the managing young ladies gave
it out, "and can't come to time for the last _tableau_." So this all