gold" of the little head that now wore its wreath of tinsel stars; and scarcely had the delicate young limbs learned their use, than they were twisted, tortured, and cramped in all those painful positions so bitterly known to students of the "ballet."

"A very promising child," the wealthy manager of the theatre had said, noticing her on one of the "training" days, and observing with pleasure the grace with which "Mademoiselle" lifted her tiny rounded arms above her head, and pointed her miniature foot in all the approved methods, while she smiled up into his big fat face with all the fearless confidence of her age and sex.

And so the "promising child" advanced step by step in her profession, till here she was, promoted to the honour of being announced, on the great staring placards outside the theatre, as "Mademoiselle Zéphyr," the "Wonderful Child-Dancer!" and, what was dearer far to her simple little soul, she was given the part of the "Fairy Queen," in the grand Christmas pantomime of that year-a rôle in which it was her pride and pleasure to be able to summon elves, gnomes, witches, and flower-sprites with one wave of her magic wand. And she did it well too; never could wand or sceptre sway with prettier dignity or sweeter gravity; never did high commands issuing from the lips of mighty poten

tates sound so quaintly effective as "Mademoiselle Zéphyr's" tremendous utterance:

"You naughty elves! begone to yon dark wood!

You'll all be punished if you are not dood!"

This word "dood," pronounced with almost tragic emphasis in the clearest of baby voices, was perhaps one of the greatest "hits" in Mademoiselle's small repertoire of "effects;" though I think the little song she sang by herself in the third act was the culminating point of pathos after all. The scene was the "Fairies' Forest by Moonlight," and there Mademoiselle Zéphyr danced a pas seul round a giant mushroom, with stage moonbeams playing upon her long fair curls in a very picturesque manner. Then came the song-the orchestra was hushed down to the utmost softness in order not to drown the little notes of the tiny voice that warbled so falteringly, yet so plaintively, the refrain—

"I see the light of the burning day
Shine on the hill-tops far away,

And gleam on the rippling river,—
Follow me,
fairies! follow me soon,

Back to my palace behind the moon,

Where I reign for ever and ever!"

A burst of the heartiest applause always rewarded this vocal effort on the part of little "Mademoiselle," who replied to it by graciously kissing her small hands to her appreciative audience; and then she entered with

due gravity on the most serious piece of professional work she had to do in the whole course of the evening. This was her grand dance-a dance she had been trained and tortured into by an active and energetic French ballet-mistress, who certainly had every reason to be proud of her tiny pupil. "Mademoiselle Zéphyr" skimmed the boards as lightly as a swallow-she leaped and sprang from point to point like a bright rosebud tossing in the air-she performed the most wonderful evolutions, always with the utmost grace and agility; and the final attitude in which she posed her little form at the conclusion of the dance, was so artistic, and withal so winsome and fascinating, that a positive roar of admiration and wonderment greeted her as the curtain fell. Poor little mite! My heart was full of pity as I left the theatre that night, for to give a child of that age the capricious applause of the public, instead of the tender nurture and fostering protection of a mother's arms, seemed to me both cruel and tragic. Some weeks elapsed, and the flitting figure and wistful little face of "Mademoiselle Zéphyr" still haunted me, till at last, with the usual impetuosity that characterizes many of my sex, I wrote to the manager of the theatre that boasted the "Wonderful Child-Dancer," and, frankly giving my name and a few other particulars, I asked him if he could tell me anything of the "Zéphyr's" parentage and history. I waited some days before an

answer came; but at last I received a very courteous letter from the manager in question, who assured me that I was not alone in the interest the talented child had awakened, but that he had reason to fear that the promise she showed thus early would be blighted by the extreme delicacy of her constitution. He added en passant, that he himself was considerably out of pocket by the "Zéphyr's" capricious health; that she had now been absent from the boards of his theatre for nearly a week; that on making enquiries, he had learned that the child was ill in bed and unable to rise, and that he had perforce stopped her salary and provided a substitute, an older girl not nearly so talented, who gave him a great deal of trouble and vexation. He furthermore mentioned in a postscript that the "Zéphyr's" real name was Winifred M——, that she was the daughter of a broken-down writer of libretti, and that her mother was dead, her only female relative being an elder sister whose character was far from reputable. He gave me the "Zéphyr's" address, a bad street in a bad neighbourhood; and assuring me that it was much better not to concern myself at all with the matter, he concluded his letter. His advice was sensible enough, and yet somehow I could not follow it. It is certainly a worldly-wise and safe course to follow, that of never enquiring into the fates of your unfortunate fellow-voyagers across the tempestuous sea

of life; it saves trouble, it prevents your own feelings from being harrowed, and it is altogether a comfortable doctrine. But the sweet plaintive voice of the "Zéphyr" haunted my ears, the serious child-face, with its frame of golden curls, got into my dreams at night, and at last I made up my mind to go, accompanied by a friend, to that questionable street in a still more questionable neighbourhood, and make enquiries after the "Zéphyr's" health.

After some trouble, I found the dirty lodging-house to which I had been directed, and stumbling up a very dark rickety flight of stairs, I knocked at a door, and asked if "Miss M——” was at home. The door was flung suddenly wide open, and a pretty girl of some seventeen years of age, with a quantity of fair hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and large blue eyes that looked heavy and tear-swollen, demanded in a somewhat hardened tone of voice, "Well; what do you want?" My companion answered, "A lady has come to know how your little sister is, the one that acts at the theatre." I then stepped forward and added as gently as I could, "I heard from Mr. the manager, that the child was ill-is she

better?"

The girl looked at me steadily without replying. Then suddenly, and as if with an effort, she said, "Come in." We passed into a dark and dirty room, ill-smelling, ill-ventilated, and scarcely furnished at all, and while I