The, to Carrie, very important theatrical performance was to take placeat the Avery on conditions which were to make it more noteworthy thanwas at first anticipated. The little dramatic student had written toHurstwood the very morning her part was brought her that she was goingto take part in a play.

"I really am," she wrote, feeling that he might take it as a jest; "Ihave my part now, honest, truly."

Hurstwood smiled in an indulgent way as he read this.

"I wonder what it is going to be? I must see that."

He answered at once, making a pleasant reference to her ability. "Ihaven't the slightest doubt you will make a success. You must come tothe park to-morrow morning and tell me all about it."

Carrie gladly complied, and revealed all the details of the undertakingas she understood it.

"Well," he said, "that's fine. I'm glad to hear it. Of course, you willdo well, you're so clever."

He had truly never seen so much spirit in the girl before. Her tendencyto discover a touch of sadness had for the nonce disappeared. As shespoke her eyes were bright, her cheeks red. She radiated much of thepleasure which her undertakings gave her. For all her misgivings--andthey were as plentiful as the moments of the day--she was still happy.She could not repress her delight in doing this little thing which, toan ordinary observer, had no importance at all.

Hurstwood was charmed by the development of the fact that the girl hadcapabilities. There is nothing so inspiring in life as the sight of alegitimate ambition, no matter how incipient. It gives colour, force,and beauty to the possessor.

Carrie was now lightened by a touch of this divine afflatus. She drew toherself commendation from her two admirers which she had not earned.Their affection for her naturally heightened their perception of whatshe was trying to do and their approval of what she did. Herinexperience conserved her own exuberant fancy, which ran riot withevery straw of opportunity, making of it a golden divining rod wherebythe treasure of life was to be discovered.

"Let's see," said Hurstwood, "I ought to know some of the boys in thelodge. I'm an Elk myself."

"Oh, you mustn't let him know I told you."

"That's so," said the manager.

"I'd like for you to be there, if you want to come, but I don't see howyou can unless he asks you."

"I'll be there," said Hurstwood affectionately. "I can fix it so hewon't know you told me. You leave it to me."

This interest of the manager was a large thing in itself for theperformance, for his standing among the Elks was something worth talkingabout. Already he was thinking of a box with some friends, and flowersfor Carrie. He would make it a dress-suit affair and give the littlegirl a chance.

Within a day or two, Drouet dropped into the Adams Street resort, and hewas at once spied by Hurstwood. It was at five in the afternoon and theplace was crowded with merchants, actors, managers, politicians, agoodly company of rotund, rosy figures, silk-hatted, starchy-bosomed,beringed and bescarfpinned to the queen's taste. John L. Sullivan, thepugilist, was at one end of the glittering bar, surrounded by a companyof loudly dressed sports, who were holding a most animated conversation.Drouet came across the floor with a festive stride, a new pair of tanshoes squeaking audibly at his progress.

"Well, sir," said Hurstwood, "I was wondering what had become of you. Ithought you had gone out of town again."

Drouet laughed.

"If you don't report more regularly we'll have to cut you off the list."

"Couldn't help it," said the drummer, "I've been busy."

They strolled over toward the bar amid the noisy, shifting company ofnotables. The dressy manager was shaken by the hand three times in asmany minutes.

"I hear your lodge is going to give a performance," observed Hurstwood,in the most offhand manner.

"Yes, who told you?"

"No one," said Hurstwood. "They just sent me a couple of tickets, whichI can have for two dollars. Is it going to be any good?"

"I don't know," replied the drummer. "They've been trying to get me toget some woman to take a part."

"I wasn't intending to go," said the manager easily. "I'll subscribe, ofcourse. How are things over there?"

"All right. They're going to fit things up out of the proceeds."

"Well," said the manager, "I hope they make a success of it. Haveanother?"

He did not intend to say any more. Now, if he should appear on the scenewith a few friends, he could say that he had been urged to come along.Drouet had a desire to wipe out the possibility of confusion.

"I think the girl is going to take a part in it," he said abruptly,after thinking it over.

"You don't say so! How did that happen?"

"Well, they were short and wanted me to find them some one. I toldCarrie, and she seems to want to try."

"Good for her," said the manager. "It'll be a real nice affair. Do hergood, too. Has she ever had any experience?"

"Not a bit."

"Oh, well, it isn't anything very serious."

"She's clever, though," said Drouet, casting off any imputation againstCarrie's ability. "She picks up her part quick enough."

"You don't say so!" said the manager.

"Yes, sir; she surprised me the other night. By George, if she didn't."

"We must give her a nice little send-off," said the manager. "I'll lookafter the flowers."

Drouet smiled at his good-nature.

"After the show you must come with me and we'll have a little supper."

"I think she'll do all right," said Drouet.

"I want to see her. She's got to do all right. We'll make her," and themanager gave one of his quick, steely half-smiles, which was a compoundof good-nature and shrewdness.

Carrie, meanwhile, attended the first rehearsal. At this performance Mr.Quincel presided, aided by Mr. Millice, a young man who had somequalifications of past experience, which were not exactly understood byany one. He was so experienced and so business-like, however, that hecame very near being rude--failing to remember, as he did, that theindividuals he was trying to instruct were volunteer players and notsalaried underlings.

"Now, Miss Madenda," he said, addressing Carrie, who stood in one partuncertain as to what move to make, "you don't want to stand like that.Put expression in your face. Remember, you are troubled over theintrusion of the stranger. Walk so," and he struck out across the Averystage in a most drooping manner.

Carrie did not exactly fancy the suggestion, but the novelty of thesituation, the presence of strangers, all more or less nervous, and thedesire to do anything rather than make a failure, made her timid. Shewalked in imitation of her mentor as requested, inwardly feeling thatthere was something strangely lacking.

"Now, Mrs. Morgan," said the director to one young married woman who wasto take the part of Pearl, "you sit here. Now, Mr. Bamberger, you standhere, so. Now, what is it you say?"

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger feebly. He had the part of Ray, Laura'slover, the society individual who was to waver in his thoughts ofmarrying her, upon finding that she was a waif and a nobody by birth.

"How is that--what does your text say?"

"Explain," repeated Mr. Bamberger, looking intently at his part.

"Yes, but it also says," the director remarked, "that you are to lookshocked. Now, say it again, and see if you can't look shocked."

"Explain!" demanded Mr. Bamberger vigorously.

"No, no, that won't do! Say it this way--_explain_."

"Explain," said Mr. Bamberger, giving a modified imitation.

"That's better. Now go on."

"One night," resumed Mrs. Morgan, whose lines came next, "father andmother were going to the opera. When they were crossing Broadway, theusual crowd of children accosted them for alms----"

"Hold on," said the director, rushing forward, his arm extended. "Putmore feeling into what you are saying."

Mrs. Morgan looked at him as if she feared a personal assault. Her eyelightened with resentment.

"Remember, Mrs. Morgan," he added, ignoring the gleam, but modifying hismanner, "that you're detailing a pathetic story. You are now supposed tobe telling something that is a grief to you. It requires feeling,repression, thus: 'The usual crowd of children accosted them for alms.'"

"All right," said Mrs. Morgan.

"Now, go on."

"As mother felt in her pocket for some change, her fingers touched acold and trembling hand which had clutched her purse."

"Very good," interrupted the director, nodding his head significantly.

"A pickpocket! Well!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger, speaking the lines thathere fell to him.

"No, no, Mr. Bamberger," said the director, approaching, "not that way.'A pickpocket--well?' so. That's the idea."

"Don't you think," said Carrie weakly, noticing that it had not beenproved yet whether the members of the company knew their lines, letalone the details of expression, "that it would be better if we justwent through our lines once to see if we know them? We might pick upsome points."

"A very good idea, Miss Madenda," said Mr. Quincel, who sat at the sideof the stage, looking serenely on and volunteering opinions which thedirector did not heed.

"All right," said the latter, somewhat abashed, "it might be well to doit." Then brightening, with a show of authority, "Suppose we run rightthrough, putting in as much expression as we can."

"Good," said Mr. Quincel.

"This hand," resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and downat her book, as the lines proceeded, "my mother grasped in her own, andso tight that a small, feeble voice uttered an exclamation of pain.Mother looked down, and there beside her was a little ragged girl."

"Very good," observed the director, now hopelessly idle.

"The thief!" exclaimed Mr. Bamberger.

"Louder," put in the director, finding it almost impossible to keep hishands off.

"The thief!" roared poor Bamberger.

"Yes, but a thief hardly six years old, with a face like an angel's.'Stop,' said my mother. 'What are you doing?'

"'Trying to steal,' said the child.

"'Don't you know that it is wicked to do so?' asked my father.

"'No,' said the girl, 'but it is dreadful to be hungry.'

"'Who told you to steal?' asked my mother.

"'She--there,' said the child, pointing to a squalid woman in a doorwayopposite, who fled suddenly down the street. 'That is old Judas,' saidthe girl."

Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. Hefidgeted around, and then went over to Mr. Quincel.

"What do you think of them?" he asked.

"Oh, I guess we'll be able to whip them into shape," said the latter,with an air of strength under difficulties.

"I don't know," said the director. "That fellow Bamberger strikes me asbeing a pretty poor shift for a lover."

"He's all we've got," said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. "Harrison wentback on me at the last minute. Who else can we get?"

"I don't know," said the director. "I'm afraid he'll never pick up."

At this moment Bamberger was exclaiming, "Pearl, you are joking withme."

"Look at that now," said the director, whispering behind his hand. "MyLord! what can you do with a man who drawls out a sentence like that?"

"Do the best you can," said Quincel consolingly.

The rendition ran on in this wise until it came to where Carrie, asLaura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl'sstatement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her,which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding thewords of Ray, "I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late," andwas cramming the letter in his pocket, when she began sweetly with:

"Ray!"

"Miss--Miss Courtland," Bamberger faltered weakly.

Carrie looked at him a moment and forgot all about the company present.She began to feel the part, and summoned an indifferent smile to herlips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he werenot present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon.

"Who is that woman?" asked the director, watching Carrie in her littlescene with Bamberger.

"Miss Madenda," said Quincel.

"I know her name," said the director, "but what does she do?"

"I don't know," said Quincel. "She's a friend of one of our members."

"Well, she's got more gumption than any one I've seen here so far--seemsto take an interest in what she's doing."

"Pretty, too, isn't she?" said Quincel.

The director strolled away without answering.

In the second scene, where she was supposed to face the company in theball-room, she did even better, winning the smile of the director, whovolunteered, because of her fascination for him, to come over and speakwith her.

"Were you ever on the stage?" he asked insinuatingly.

"No," said Carrie.

"You do so well, I thought you might have had some experience."

Carrie only smiled consciously.

He walked away to listen to Bamberger, who was feebly spouting someardent line.

Mrs. Morgan saw the drift of things and gleamed at Carrie with enviousand snapping black eyes.

"She's some cheap professional," she gave herself the satisfaction ofthinking, and scorned and hated her accordingly.

The rehearsal ended for one day, and Carrie went home feeling that shehad acquitted herself satisfactorily. The words of the director wereringing in her ears, and she longed for an opportunity to tellHurstwood. She wanted him to know just how well she was doing. Drouet,too, was an object for her confidences. She could hardly wait until heshould ask her, and yet she did not have the vanity to bring it up. Thedrummer, however, had another line of thought to-night, and her littleexperience did not appeal to him as important. He let the conversationdrop, save for what she chose to recite without solicitation, and Carriewas not good at that. He took it for granted that she was doing verywell and he was relieved of further worry. Consequently he threw Carrieinto repression, which was irritating. She felt his indifference keenlyand longed to see Hurstwood. It was as if he were now the only friendshe had on earth. The next morning Drouet was interested again, but thedamage had been done.

She got a pretty letter from the manager, saying that by the time shegot it he would be waiting for her in the park. When she came, he shoneupon her as the morning sun.

"Well, my dear," he asked, "how did you come out?"

"Well enough," she said, still somewhat reduced after Drouet.

"Now, tell me just what you did. Was it pleasant?"

Carrie related the incidents of the rehearsal, warming up as sheproceeded.

"Well, that's delightful," said Hurstwood. "I'm so glad. I must get overthere to see you. When is the next rehearsal?"

"Tuesday," said Carrie, "but they don't allow visitors."

"I imagine I could get in," said Hurstwood significantly.

She was completely restored and delighted by his consideration, but shemade him promise not to come around.

"Now, you must do your best to please me," he said encouragingly. "Justremember that I want you to succeed. We will make the performance worthwhile. You do that now."

"I'll try," said Carrie, brimming with affection and enthusiasm.

"That's the girl," said Hurstwood fondly. "Now, remember," shaking anaffectionate finger at her, "your best."

"I will," she answered, looking back.

The whole earth was brimming sunshine that morning. She tripped along,the clear sky pouring liquid blue into her soul. Oh, blessed are thechildren of endeavour in this, that they try and are hopeful. Andblessed also are they who, knowing, smile and approve.