San Francisco was the scene of her debut, and “Adrienne Lecouvreur” the play. She has since acted in all the leading cities of America, besides making two visits to London. Her repertory includes a wide range of pieces of the highest intellectual order. As a delineator of Shaksperian heroines she is unsurpassed, and her appearances with Edwin Booth in the great dramatic classics have been among the most notable events of recent seasons. The intensity of her _Juliet_, the grace and dignity of her _Portia_, the pathos of her _Ophelia_, and the Arcadian _naïveté_ of her _Rosalind_ have borne witness to her rare endowment of histrionic talent. Among other plays in which she has taken the leading part are “Camille,” “Mary Stuart,” “Juanna,” “Frou-Frou,” “Odette,” and “Richelieu.” In the last named, which she played in conjunction with Booth, she scored one of her most notable successes as _Julie de Mortimer_. Long as she has been upon the stage of two continents, Madame Modjeska’s impersonations of _Juliet_ or _Beatrice_ have all the fresh charm of youth. With exceptional skill in the portrayal of strong emotion she combines a lightness of touch and a graceful refinement that are peculiarly characteristic. The fact that she has never succeeded in removing from her English speech the last faint trace of a foreign accent, is to many of her parts rather an added interest than a blemish. [Illustration: MODJESKA AS OPHELIA.] A DAUGHTER OF THE DESERT. _By Thomas Winthrop Hall._ A tired horse ambled slowly up to the solitary adobe house, or rather hut, that meets the sight of the dusty traveler who journeys between a certain station on the Southern Pacific railroad and the famous Indian station at San Carlos. One hundred miles of dusty road that wound over a naked, sandy plain sparsely dotted with hideous cactus, a stretch of the desert on either side, and on the horizon walls of gray mountains treeless as the desert itself—these were the uncheerful surroundings of McCoy’s ranch. Worse than a prison, more remote than a Siberian mine, lonelier than the grave, here two human souls, father and daughter, had lived for more than twelve years, and during that twelve years they had been away from that adobe oasis, the girl at least, not one single day, and the father never longer than it would take him to ride over to the mountains for a short hunt. It was a watering station on the stage road. An artesian well had been sunk there in the early days. Like every other work of man it had to have its human slaves, and from the day the last adobe had been laid these slaves had been McCoy and his daughter Sis. The latter was a child of six when she was lifted out of the ox wagon at the door of the house. She was now a girl of eighteen.