They were of all kinds and qualities,—­some well-to-do, some very poor, some gentle and well-mannered, some wild as steers, some brazen-faced and pushing, some sweet and shy and modest.  I had one little child—­a mere tot—­take hold of the ribbon with which I tied my cape and ask me how much it was a yard; she also inquired about the quality of the narrow lace edge on my handkerchief, and being convinced that it was real, sharply told me to look out “it didn’t get stoled.”  One little girl came every night, as I sat waiting for my cue, to rub her fingers up and down over the velvet collar of my cape.  Touching the soft yielding surface seemed to give her exquisite pleasure, and I caught the same child standing behind me when I wore the rich red dress, holding her hands up to it, as to a fire, for warmth.  Poor little soul! she had sensibility and imagination both.

The play requires that one child should be very small; and as it was no unusual thing for the little one to get frightened behind the scenes, I used to come to the rescue, and as I found a question about “Mamma” won their attention the quickest, I fell into the habit of saying, first thing:  “Where’s mamma?  Is she here?  Show me, where.”  And having once won attention, it had gone hard with me indeed had I failed to make friends with the youngster.

One Monday evening as I came to my place, I saw the new baby standing all forlorn, with apparently no one at all to look after her, not even one of the larger children.  She was evidently on the very verge of frightened tears, and from old habit I stooped down and said to her, “Where’s mamma, dear?”

She lifted two startled blue eyes to my face and her lips began to tremble.  I went on, “Is mamma here?” The whole little face drew up in a distressed pucker, and with gasps she whispered, “She’s in er box.”

I raised my head and glanced across the stage.  An old gentleman sat in the box opposite, and I knew a merry young party had the one on our own side, so I answered:  “Oh, no, dear, mamma’s not in the box; she’s—­” when the poor baby cried, “Yes, she is, my mamma’s in a box!” and buried her curly head in the folds of my skirt and burst into sobs.

At that moment a hard-voiced, hard-faced, self-sufficient girl pushed forward, and explained in a patronizing way:  “Oh, she’s too little to say it right.  She ain’t got no mother; she’s dead, and it’s the coffin Annie means by the box.”

Oh, poor baby, left behind! poor little scrap of humanity!

In another city the child was older, nearly five, but so very small that she did nicely in the tiny trousers (it is a boy’s part, as I should have said before), and when the act was over, I kissed the brightly pretty face and offered her a little gift.  She put out her hand eagerly, then swiftly drew it back again, saying, “It’s money.”

“Yes,” I answered.  “It’s for you, take it.”

[Illustration:  "Little Breeches"]