“Well, this is it, then, my dear. I have not been able to avoid seeing your fruitless efforts to maintain yourself and child, for the last three months. I fear you have scarcely made five shillings a week.” “I have not made that for the last month.” “And there seems to be no chance of doing better—with your needle, I mean.” “Ah, no, no.” “And your situation is getting worse every day. Poor child! your very shoes are almost gone—there—forgive me—I have spoken rudely.” “No, no—you have spoken the truth in love. Any truth can be told in the spirit of love.” “And you are wasting away—you will be thrown upon your sick bed—then what will become of your child?” “Alas, God knows! If we both could die—” “Yes, if you both _could_. Death is no evil at all.” As the actress said this, her hollow, shadowy face grew dark, and her large, luminous eyes glanced aside, and fell upon the door—fixed in an intense, suffering, almost querulous gaze—as if of one enduring pain. “It must come abruptly at last,” she said, looking up, suddenly. “My dear, have you any insurmountable prejudices against a theatrical life for yourself?” Startled by the abruptness of the proposition, Zuleime raised her eyes to the beautiful, dark, irritated countenance before her, without replying. “You don’t understand me. Well, then, to put it plainer, if nothing better at all could be found for you, would you absolutely refuse to go upon the stage?” Zuleime had understood her very well, and if she still hesitated, it was from a reluctance to wound the spirit of the actress. “Do you, then, consider the histrionic profession disreputable?” asked Mrs. Knight, with the same suffering, querulous, almost cross expression of the eyes. “No,” said Zuleime, very gently, “I do not. Not the profession that Mrs. Siddons ennobled. I think it truly “‘The youngest of the sister arts, Where all their beauties blend.’” “Well, then, my question—Would you object to going on the stage yourself?” “I am not fit for it,” replied Zuleime, evasively. “I do not know that. I need not tell you that you are young and pretty, and singularly graceful—nor that you have a very fine voice for singing—these form a very good foundation. And in elocution, my dear, I would myself become your instructress. What say you?” “That you are kinder to me than any one has ever been since I left home; and that I am very, very grateful,” Zuleime said, very gently. “But that you despise the calling too thoroughly to follow it, even for bread,” said the actress, bitterly. “No, no—I did not say or mean that, indeed—but I, you see, have neither the taste, talent, nor courage requisite!” “Why not?”