ainty; and
she is either badly frightened or very calm, for there is no such thing
as being 'only a little' frightened the first time. That condition
sometimes comes afterwards and may last through life. But pity those
whose courage fails them the first time, for there is no more awful
sensation for a man or woman in perfect health than to stand alone
before a great audience, and suddenly to forget words, music,
everything, and to see the faces of the people in the house turned
upside down, and the chandelier swinging round like a wind mill while
all the other lights tumble into it, and to notice with horror that the
big stage is pitching and rolling like the most miserable little
steamer that ever went to sea; and to feel that if one cannot remember
one's part, one's head will certainly fly off at the neck and join the
hideous dance of jumbled heads and lights and stalls and boxes in the
general chaos.

Margaret, however, deserved no pity on that afternoon, for she was not
in the least afraid of anything, except that the courtiers who were to
carry her off at the end of her first scene might be clumsy, or that
the sack in the last act would be dusty inside and make her sneeze. But
as for that, she was willing that the ending should be a failure, as
Madame Bonanni said it must be, for she did not mean to do it again if
she could possibly help it.

She was not afraid, but she was not so very calm as she fancied she
was, for afterwards, even on that very evening, she found it impossible
to remember anything that happened from the moment when the sallow maid
entered the dressing-room again, closely followed by the call-boy, who
knocked on the open door and spoke her stage name, until she found
herself well out on the stage, in Rigoletto's arms, uttering the
girlish cry which begins Gilda's part. The three notes, not very high,
not very loud, were drowned in the applause that roared at her from the
house.

It was so loud, so unexpected, that she was startled for a moment, and
remained with one arm on the barytone's shoulder looking rather shyly
across the lowered footlights and over the director's head. He had
already laid down his baton to wait.

'You must acknowledge that, and I must begin over again,' said the
barytone, so loud that Margaret fancied every one must hear him.

He moved back a little when he had spoken and left her in the middle of
the stage. She drew herself up, bent her head, smiled, and made a
lit