Barentin roared in response, shaking his fist at them again—" Never, never!"

Another slight tumult, and hisses, during which Gibeau expostulated with Barentin.

"If you will talk, talk low."

"It is for you I'm talking, Gibeau," haughtily replied the ludicrous old man, "for these ruffians do not deserve the honor of my remarks. boquets to her like rain. up. Bravo!"

There!

Good!

They are throwing She don't pick them

As he stated, the proud girl now showed her disdain of the homage of her converted insulters. She even pushed away with her foot a bunch of flowers which lay in her path.

Astonishment in the audience, and some signs of displeasure.

Whereupon the marquis resumed speaking: "Ah, cruel one, why disdain the homage of a heart devoted to you through life and death!" Then in a whisper, he said, "My dear young lady, what you are doing is very dangerous. Better pick up the bouquets."

“Marquis,” said the girl, aloud, without answering his whispered remark; "marquis, I treat you as you treated The game is now equal !"

me.

"Bravo, bravo!" shouted the old commander.

Here one of the gallery-gods-those enfant terribles of the theatre-cried out,

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Why don't she pick up the flowers? It's insulting!" "Yes," roared the pit, "the bouquets! the bouquets!" The girl stopped her acting, and again stood impassable and disdainful before the anger which her conduct had excited.

"You pick them up, marquis," cried a voice from the gallery, which belonged to a small boy with a dirty shirt. "Yes, yes!" cried the pit.

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THE POWER OF BEAUTY.

The actor did as he was bid. Lifting the flowers from the stage, he offered them to the girl with his most gallant bow.

Leopoldine took them-but only for the purpose of throwing them one after another behind the scenes.

This singular stroke of policy awakened a loud murmur. Leopoldine folded her arms and threw upon the public a glance so full of anger, that the astonished spectators, completely taken aback by her unusual conduct, hardly knew whether to hiss or to applaud.

The silence was broken by the old commander leaning out of his box once more, and vociferating—

"Well, suppose she don't want your flowers-will you force them on her? You are free to hiss her; she has the right to despise your cabbage-heads."

"Commander, commander," whispered Gibeau, nervously, "they are camelias."

"I don't care."

Oh, magic power of beauty!

Leopoldine had sat down to wait the resumption of quiet. Her cheek leaning on hand, her roguish smile more and more disdainful, she seemed to say to the public:

"Don't hurry yourself, my friends, the theatre isn't

rented."

The monster audience was vanquished by her beauty and her audacity. It felt that she was stronger than it, and at length resolved to frantically applaud what in reality it should have hissed.

The play was soon over, and the curtain fell amidst wild cries for the reappearance of the "orphan."

The debutante obstinately refused to again show herself. The stage manager almost went on his knees to her. How success changes some people's views!

"Please bestow one parting look on them," plead the stage manager.

THE LAST STROKE.

"No; they are too rude."

"But they are tearing up the seats!"

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"Why did they insult me when I was doing my best?" "But to oblige me-"

"Very well, so be it. Raise your curtain!"

Silence fell like enchantment over the hitherto noisy audience.

The doors at back of the stage were flung open for the entrance of the debutante.

She appeared.

A tempest of applause greeted her.

Leopoldine advanced slowly down the stage, and instead of making a courtesy to the assembled spectators, she wheeled directly in front of the box where Barentin and Gibeau sat, and made to them, and to them alone, three profound curtseys, after which she quickly turned her back on the audience and walked off the stage. Everything she did was right now. The public ap

plauded her to the echo.

And after that night she became the talk of the town. Crowds rushed to see her every night, and her fortune was made.

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THE PENNILESS ORPHAN.

CHAPTER XVII.

The Story of Carrie Lee, an American Debutante.-Driven to the Stage for a Livelihood.-Secures an Engagement. - Horror of her Friends.-Cast for a Boy's Part.—The Recreant Lover.-The Eventful Night." Charlie.”—“ Will you put out Mine Eyes?"—The Denouement.

There is a young lady now upon the stage-whether in New York or some other city, I think I shall not say, for I do not wish to call unpleasant attention to her-whom I once knew as one of the noble army of suffering, struggling womanhood.

Her name, though public property now, it would not be right in me to give in connection with the story I am about to tell of her; so I will call her Carrie Lee.

Being suddenly left fatherless, motherless and penniless, Carrie Lee was made painfully conscious of the fact that landladies, whatever their sympathies, do not keep boarders for nothing; and that the only irresistible music in this world is the jingle of a well-filled purse.

Knowing then that she must do something for a livelihood, Carrie Lee investigated the subject of womens' employment.

But what could she do? Alas! here was the trouble. Carrie Lee had received a good boarding-school education, such as young ladies of the present day commonly receive a smattering of French, a smattering of algebra, a smattering of drawing, a smattering of music and a smattering of various other genteel accomplishments-all of which were of very small use to her now. They would not, or so it seemed, bring her in five cents a day.

In fact, Carrie had never been taught anything useful in the world-there is not one girl in a thousand who

GOES ON THE STAGE.

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ever is taught anything useful, or anything which she could turn to practical account if she were obliged to earn her livelihood.

What should she do? Coloring photographs, dressmaking, plain sewing, all these things require time and instruction before a livelihood can be made from them; and in the case of Carrie Lee the material wants were immediate, and must be immediately supplied.

Carrie had always had a taste for the stage; and while she did not think that by going upon the stage she should at once set the town in raptures over her, it was not extraordinary, perhaps, that now in her dire strait the thought of earning a livelihood thus should occur to her; so without a word to any one she set out in search of employment as an actress.

She made application at the door of one theatre after another, until she found a manager who was willing to try what she could do.

There were not lacking people to raise their hands in holy horror at the course taken by this young girl, to say she had disgraced her family by going upon the stage; but Carrie bravely went her ways, and trusted to nothing but her own consciousness of honor and right.

But the poor girl's courage was soon to be sadly tested. Once enlisted in the ranks of a theatrical company, she found that for rigorous discipline she might as well have entered the army; the managerial fiat must be obeyed. And such a dreadful fiat.

The first part for which Carrie was cast, was that of Arthur, in "King John;" a part which never would have been given a novice, but that illness of another member of the company threw it upon her shoulders.

Arthur was a good part in some respects; but alas! it was a boy's part; and Carrie shrunk with uncontrollable pain from the idea of donning male attire.