When she had sung only to this point, people in the audience were exchanging significant smiles. There was no doubt of it; Louise Moran's voice had lost its beauty. The years and joys of life abroad had done their work. We now knew why she had given up comic opera and had gone into burlesque. The house was so taken by surprise that at the end of her second stanza, where applause should have come, none came. There was no occasion for her to draw upon her supply of “encore verses.” Unprepared for the chilling silence that followed her song, she bestowed upon the audience a look of mingled astonishment, pain, and resentment. But she recovered self-possession promptly and delivered the few spoken lines preceding her exit gaily enough. Her face clouded as soon as she was off the stage. She abused her maid in her dressing-room and sent the comedian's “dresser” out for some troches. The state of her mind was not improved by the sound of a hail-storm-like sound that came from the direction of the stage shortly after,--the applause at the leading comedian's entrance. As the newspapers said the next day, the only honours of that performance were with the comedian. The star of Louise Moran had set. Not only was her singing-voice a ruin, but the actress had grown coarse in visage. The once willowy outlines of her figure had rounded vulgarly. On the face, audacity had taken place of piquancy. Even the dark gray eyes, which somehow seemed black across the footlights, had lost some lustre. Why had the once lovely creature come back from Europe to disturb the memories of her other radiant self, and to turn those dainty photographs of her earlier person into lies? Every man in the house was thinking this question at the end of the first act. She had another solo to sing in the second act. It was while she was attempting this that my glance strayed to the man in the gallery. His face this time surprised me. It wore a look of ineffable sympathy and sorrow. Surely tears were falling from the sad eyes. This pity touched me. It was so solitary. The feeling of the rest of the audience was plainly one of resentful derision at being disappointed. After the performance I waited for the comedian. He was called before the curtain and a speech was extorted from him. There were but a few faint cries for the actress, to which she did not respond. She had summoned the manager to her dressing-room. While she hastily assumed her wraps for the street, she was excitedly complaining of the musical director “for not knowing his business,” the comedian for “interfering” in her scenes, the composer for writing the music too high, and the librettist for supplying such “beastly rubbish” in the way of dialogue. “Very well; I'll call a rehearsal to-morrow at ten,” the conciliatory manager replied. “You talk to Myers” (the musical director) “yourself about it. And you can introduce those two songs you speak of. Myers will fix the other music to suit your voice.”