supposed to know how. Good-by."

"Good-by. If you get any flowers I'll send them in by an usher."

"Do," said Patty. "I'm sure to get a lot."

Behind the scenes all was joyful confusion. Georgie, in a short skirt,
with her shirt-waist sleeves rolled up and a note-book in her hand, was
standing in the middle of the stage directing the scene-shifters and
distracted committee. Patty, in the "green-room," was presiding over the
cast, with a hare's foot in one hand and the other daubed with red and
blue grease-paints.

"Oh, Patty," remonstrated Cynthia, with a horrified glance in the
mirror, "I look more like a soubrette than a heroine."

"That's the way you ought to look," returned Patty. "Here, hold still
till I put another dab on your chin."

Cynthia appealed to the faithful Lord Bromley, who was sitting in the
background, politely letting the ladies go first. "Look, Bonnie, don't
you think I'm too red? I know it'll all come off when you kiss me."

"If it comes off as easily as that, you'll be more fortunate than most
of the people I make up"; and Patty smiled knowingly as she remembered
how Priscilla had soaked half the night on the occasion of a previous
play, and then had appeared at breakfast the next morning with lowering
eyebrows and a hectic flush on each cheek. "You must remember that
foot-lights take a lot of color," she explained condescendingly. "You'd
look ghastly if I let you go the way you wanted to at first. Next!

"No," said Patty, as the butler presented himself; "you don't come till
the second act. I'll take the Irate Parent first." The Irate Parent was
dragged from a corner where he had been anxiously mumbling over his
lines. "What's the matter?" asked Patty, as she began daubing in
wrinkles with a liberal hand; "are you afraid?"

"N-no," said the Parent; "I'm not afraid, only I'm afraid that I will be
afraid."

"You'd just better change your mind, then," said Patty, sternly. "We
aren't going to allow any stage-fright to-night."

"Patty, you can manage Georgie Merriles; make her let me go on without
any wig," cried Cynthia, returning and holding up to view a mass of
yellow curls of a shade that was never produced in the course of nature.

Patty looked at the wig critically. "It is, perhaps, a trifle golden for
the part."

"Golden!" said Cynthia. "It's positively _orange_. Wait till you see how
it lights up. He calls me his dark-eyed beauty: and I'm sure no one with
dark eyes, or any other