I looked hard at her.  “No,” I said; “and if I have met you before, it’s strange, for while I cannot remember names, my memory for faces is remarkable.”

“Oh,” she said, in deep disappointment, “can’t you remember me at all—­not at all?”

Her face fell, she pushed out her nether lip, she knit her level, flaxen brows.

I leaned forward suddenly and touched her hand, saying, “You are not—­you can’t be—­my little—­”

“Yes, I am,” she answered delightedly.  “I am Little Breeches.”

“And this?” I asked, touching the white bundle.

“Oh,” she cried, “this is my Little Breeches; but I shan’t dress him in bright blue.”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed, “how old are you, and how old am I?”

“Well,” she replied, “I’m almost eighteen, and as you look just exactly as you did when I saw you last, it doesn’t matter, so far as I can see, how many years have passed.” (Oh, clever Little Breeches!)

Then, having had Little Breeches 2d kissed and honestly admired, she trotted away satisfied; and only as I made my entrance on the stage did it occur to me that I had not asked her name; so she ends as she began, simply Little Breeches.

CHAPTER XII

THE STAGE AS AN OCCUPATION FOR WOMEN_

In looking over my letters from the gentle “Unknown,” I find that the question, “What advantage has the stage over other occupations for women?” is asked by a Mrs. Some One more often than by the more impulsive and less thoughtful girl writer, and it is put with frequency and earnestness.

Of course there is nothing authoritative in these answers of mine, nothing absolute.  They are simply the opinion of one woman, founded upon personal experience and observation.  We must, of course, to begin with, eliminate the glamour of the stage—­that strange, false lustre, as powerful as it is intangible—­and consider acting as a practical occupation, like any other.  And then I find that in trying to answer the question asked, I am compelled, after all, to turn to a memory.

I had been on the stage two years when one day I met a schoolmate.  Her father had died, and she, too, was working; but she was bitterly envious of my occupation.  I earnestly explained the demands stage wardrobe made upon the extra pay I drew; that in actual fact she had more money for herself than I had.  Again I explained that rehearsals, study, and preparation of costumes required time almost equal to her working hours, with the night work besides; but she would not be convinced.

“Oh, don’t you see,” she cried, “I am at service, that means I’m a dependant, I labour for another.  You serve, yes, but you labour for yourself,” and lo! she had placed her stubby little finger upon the sore spot in the working-woman’s very heart, when she had divined that in the independence of an actress lay her great advantage over other workers.