“This hand,” resumed Mrs. Morgan, glancing up at Mr. Bamberger and down at her book, as the lines proceeded, “my mother grasped in her own, and so 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 his hands 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 doorway opposite, who fled suddenly down the street. ‘That is old Judas,’ said the girl.” Mrs. Morgan read this rather flatly, and the director was in despair. He fidgeted 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 as being a pretty poor shift for a lover.” “He’s all we’ve got,” said Quincel, rolling up his eyes. “Harrison went back 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 with me.” “Look at that now,” said the director, whispering behind his hand. “My Lord! 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, as Laura, comes into the room to explain to Ray, who, after hearing Pearl’s statement about her birth, had written the letter repudiating her, which, however, he did not deliver. Bamberger was just concluding the words of Ray, “I must go before she returns. Her step! Too late,” and was 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 her lips, turning as the lines directed and going to a window, as if he were not present. She did it with a grace which was fascinating to look upon. “Who is that woman?” asked the director, watching Carrie in her little scene 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—seems to take an interest in what she’s doing.”