Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie’s photo along with others to illustrate the announcement. Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it. Carrie was delighted. Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it. At least, no more attention was paid to her than before. At the same time there seemed very little in her part. It consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress. The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out. “Don’t kick, old man,” remarked the manager. “If it don’t go the first week we will cut it out.” Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention. She practised her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved. At the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate. “That isn’t so bad,” said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which Carrie’s blues had upon the part. “Tell her to frown a little more when Sparks dances.” Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly. “Frown a little more, Miss Madenda,” said the stage manager. Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke. “No; frown,” he said. “Frown as you did before.” Carrie looked at him in astonishment. “I mean it,” he said. “Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances. I want to see how it looks.” It was easy enough to do. Carrie scowled. The effect was something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager. “That is good,” he said. “If she’ll do that all through, I think it will take.” Going over to Carrie, he said: “Suppose you try frowning all through. Do it hard. Look mad. It’ll make the part really funny.” On the opening night it looked to Carrie as if there were nothing to her part, after all. The happy, sweltering audience did not seem to see her in the first act. She frowned and frowned, but to no effect. Eyes were riveted upon the more elaborate efforts of the stars. In the second act, the crowd, wearied by a dull conversation, roved with its eyes about the stage and sighted her. There she was, grey-suited, sweet-faced, demure, but scowling. At first the general idea was that she was temporarily irritated, that the look was genuine and not fun at all. As she went on frowning, looking now at one principal and now at the other, the audience began to smile. The portly gentlemen in the front rows began to feel that she was a delicious little morsel. It was the kind of frown they would have loved to force away with kisses. All the gentlemen yearned toward her. She was capital.