Anxious to earn an extra dollar, I hunched old Jimmie, and he turned around and spoke very savagely to me: “Will you do it?” “Yes,” said I. So that night I walked home with Charlotte Cushman, the great actress, carrying her basket to her room in the Planters’ House. I did this until Saturday, when I was taken ill and obliged to send a substitute, who brought the basket on Saturday night. After the play, when the lights were turned off with the exception of the star’s dressing-room, I was curled up on the stage among a lot of scenery. I heard Miss Cushman, coming out of her room, say: “Where is that boy who carried my basket?” I replied, “Here.” She walked across the stage, piloted by the night watchman with his lantern, and reaching out her hand to me said: “I hope you are not going to be ill,” and placed a coin in my hands. I hurried to get to where there was sufficient light, to discover that I was the owner of a twenty-dollar gold piece. That night I changed my lodging. I did not meet Miss Cushman personally after that until 1874-5. I was giving Sunday-night entertainments in Boston, which were meeting with very great success. I thought of Charlotte Cushman, and telegraphed her at Newport, offering her $1,000 if she would give a reading in the Boston. She accepted. The night of the reading I was so busy that I did not have an opportunity to place in Miss Cushman’s hands the envelope containing the certified check for $1,000. It was not until after the performance that I went to her hotel and sent up my card. The bell-boy returned with the answer, “Miss Cushman says show the gentleman up.” Miss Cushman met me very cordially in her room. She was in a very happy mood, as the hall had been crowded with people. “Miss Cushman,” I said, “I intended to hand this envelope to you on the platform, but I was so busy in front of the house that I could not get an opportunity. Please pardon me.” “Oh, that is all right, Major Pond. Sit down and have some supper.” (Stars always have supper after their performances.) During the conversation at the table I said: “Miss Cushman, that $1,000 check of this evening is the interest on twenty dollars that you invested in me in 1857.” Then I related the incident of the twenty-dollar gold piece which she gave me when I was sick back of the stage in St. Louis. “Are you that boy?” she asked, with a reminiscent smile. “Yes,” said I, smiling back, “the very boy.” “Well, I am glad to see you. I have often wondered if you survived.” We were both glad. Miss Ellen Terry, the greatest actress of our times, possesses a remarkable range of powers from low comedy to the highest tragic force, but always suggesting a lovely spirit behind the mask. At one moment she can be a queen of tragedy, at another a boisterous hoyden, at another a gentle, refined, high-bred lady. Her mirth is perfect gladness. [Illustration]