"Yes!" she agreed, faintly. "It's—it's Elizabethan. I wish we Americans could take our theatre as seriously. I don't wonder, though, that they were excited. I was a little under the spell myself. I could easily fancy that those dolls were alive." "Look at Beatrice," I suggested. The girl had not yet recovered her composure. Her hands were clinched and her breath came deep and fast. Deborah eyed her sympathetically. "It seems very real, doesn't it, my dear?" said Deborah. Beatrice turned upon her. "It _is_-a r-real!" she exclaimed. "It was-a te-r-_rue_! 'E did kill-a da Christiano. It was long ago. You are-a cold, you Americani!" "Come, come, Beatrice," I interposed. "You must not speak like that to Miss Speedwell. Take us to your father at once. I shall tell him that you are a naughty girl." III In the little enclosure behind the scenes Pietro gave us a welcome that raised a lump in my throat. "Old friend!" he exclaimed, in his pure Tuscan. "Why have you left us lonely so long? The theatre has not been a satisfaction without you. No one understands it as you do." As I shook his hand I noted that his dark eyes had dulled over, and that anxiety had cut a wrinkle between his white old brows. "I am making amends," I answered. "I am bringing someone who will comprehend your art as well as I." "This lady! You are married, then. It is well." Deborah turned away, and though I hastened to explain, I felt a thrill of joy. She was not carrying off an embarrassing situation with her wonted lightness. "No, no, only an old friend," I said. "I am not married. Deborah, let me introduce Pietro. He is a true artist. He might be making himself rich by taking his daughter and a street-piano to the restaurants, but he prefers to stick to his art and to live on a little." Pietro's face fell. "It is not altogether that," he said. "It is true that I love the drama. But also I do not find that it is good for Beatrice to go where there are people who look on." I looked a question at him. "Would not the lady like to handle a marionette?" replied the manager. "It is the beginning of knowledge about our drama. Anselmo, show the lady how to manage the figures." As Anselmo led Deborah away, a change in the room, of which I had been dimly aware, insisted upon my full attention. A high wooden partition divided the helpers' bench into two parts. "What is that for, Pietro?" I exclaimed. The old man drew a heavy sigh. "It is Beatrice," he explained. "She has bewitched my two helpers. They cannot meet without blows. So I have arranged that each remains upon his own side of the room. Anselmo handles the Christians; Giuseppe the Moslems. I have made high the boards, so that they cannot meet upon the bench." "So-o-o," I whistled. I ran over in my mind Pietro's anxious face, Beatrice's cool reply to my question about the helpers, and the pleading gaze of the faun.