Oh, Patita! Patita! [the letter began], what do you think? _I am on the stage._ I had been crazy to go on ever since _that night_. A theatrical man was in Monterey just before mamma’s death, and he told me they were always wanting pretty corus girls at the Tivoli; so after the funeral I told everybody I was going to stay with Miss Galpin until Uncle Jim sent for me—I hated to lie, but I had to—and I went up to San Francisco and went right to the Tivoli. He took me because he said I was pretty and had a fresh voice. I had to ware tights. You should have seen me. At first I felt all the time like stooping over to cover up my legs with my arms. But after a while I got used to it, and one night we had to dance, and everybody said I was the most graceful. The manager said I was a born dancer and actress. The other day what do you think happened? A New York manager was here and heard me sing,—I had a little part by that time,—and he told me that if I took lessons I could be a prima donna in comic opera. He said I not only was going to have a lovely voice, but that I had a new style (Spanish) and would take in New York. He offered to send me to Paris for a year and then bring me out in New York if I’d give him my word—I’m too young to sign a contract—that I wouldn’t go with any other manager. At first my manager, who is a good old sole (I didn’t tell you that I live with him and his wife, and that their awful good to me and stand the fellers off), wouldn’t have it; but after a while he gave in—said I’d have to go the pace sooner or later (whatever that means), and I might as well go it in first class style. His wife, the good old sole, cried. She said I was the first corus girl she’d ever taken an interest in, but somehow it would be on her conscience if I went wrong. But I’m not going wrong. I don’t care a bit for men. There was a bald-headed old fool who used to come and sit in the front row every night and throw kisses to me, and one night he threw me a bouquet with a bracelet in it. I wore the bracelet, for it was a beauty with a big diamond in it; but I never looked at him or answered any of his notes, and Mr. Bell—the manager—wrote him he’d punch his head if he came near the stage door. No, all I want is to act, act, act, and sing, sing, sing, and dance, dance, dance, and have beautiful cloths and jewels and a carriage and two horses. Mr. Soper has told me ten times since I’ve met him that “virtue in an actress pays,” and he’s going to send a horrid old woman with me to Paris, as if I’d bother with the fools anyhow. I’m sure I can’t see what Mrs. Bell cries about if I’m going to be famous and make a lot of money. Anyhow, I’m going. I do so want to see you, Patita dear. Maybe you can come up to the steamer and see me off. I wonder if you have changed. I’m not so very