and said: "I am Mrs. D----,
which is, of course, Greek to you; but I want to thank you now for your
great goodness to me years ago. I was in the ballet in a Chicago theatre.
You were playing 'Camille.' One day the actress who played _Olympe_ was
sick, and as I was, you said, the tallest and the handsomest of the
girls, you gave the part to me. I was wild with delight until the
nervousness got hold of me. I was not strong--my stomach failed me; the
girls thought that very funny, and guyed me unmercifully. I was surely
breaking down. You came along, ready to go on, and heard them. I could
scarcely stand. You said: 'What's the matter--are you nervous?' I tried
to speak, but only nodded. You took my hand and, stroking it, gently
said, 'Isn't it awful?' then, glancing at my tormentors, added, 'but it's
nothing to be ashamed of, and just as soon as you face the footlights all
your courage will come back to you, and, my dear, comfort yourself with
the knowledge that the perfectly collected, self-satisfied beginner
rarely attains a very high position on the stage.' Oh, if you only knew
how my heart jumped at your words. My fingers grew warmer, my nerves
steadier, and I really did succeed in getting the lines over my lips some
way. But you saved me, you made an actress of me. Ah, don't laugh! don't
shake your head, please! Had I failed that night, don't you see, I should
never have had a chance given me again; while, having got through safely,
it was not long before I was pointed out as the girl who had played
_Olympe_ with Miss Morris, and on the strength of that I was trusted with
another part, and so crept on gradually; and now I want to thank you for
the sympathy and kindness you showed me so long ago"--and though her warm
gratitude touched me deeply, I had then--have now--no recollection
whatever of the incident she referred to, nor of ever having seen before
her very handsome face. And so, no doubt, many of whom I write, who from
their abundance cast _me_ a word of praise or of advice now and again,
will have no memory of the _largesse_ which I have cherished all these
years.

Among my most treasured memories I find the gentle words and astonishing
prophecy of Mr. Charles Kean. That was the last visit to this country of
Mr. and Mrs. Kean, and his memory was failing him grievously. He had with
him two English actors, each of whom knew every line of all his parts,
and their duty was, when on the stage or off, so long as Mr. K