“I’m willing,” said Carrie.

They tried in time and were apprised of the proper date to apply again.  That was May 16th.  Meanwhile their own show closed May 5th.

“Those that want to go with the show next season,” said the manager, “will have to sign this week.”

“Don’t you sign,” advised Lola.  “I wouldn’t go.”

“I know,” said Carrie, “but maybe I can’t get anything else.”

“Well, I won’t,” said the little girl, who had a resource in her admirers.  “I went once and I didn’t have anything at the end of the season.”

Carrie thought this over.  She had never been on the road.

“We can get along,” added Lola.  “I always have.”

Carrie did not sign.

The manager who was putting on the summer skit at the Casino had never heard of Carrie, but the several notices she had received, her published picture, and the program bearing her name had some little weight with him.  He gave her a silent part at thirty dollars a week.

“Didn’t I tell you?” said Lola.  “It doesn’t do you any good to go away from New York.  They forget all about you if you do.”

Now, because Carrie was pretty, the gentlemen who made up the advance illustrations of shows about to appear for the Sunday papers selected Carrie’s photo along with others to illustrate the announcement.  Because she was very pretty, they gave it excellent space and drew scrolls about it.  Carrie was delighted.  Still, the management did not seem to have seen anything of it.  At least, no more attention was paid to her than before.  At the same time there seemed very little in her part.  It consisted of standing around in all sorts of scenes, a silent little Quakeress.  The author of the skit had fancied that a great deal could be made of such a part, given to the right actress, but now, since it had been doled out to Carrie, he would as leave have had it cut out.

“Don’t kick, old man,” remarked the manager.  “If it don’t go the first week we will cut it out.”

Carrie had no warning of this halcyon intention.  She practiced her part ruefully, feeling that she was effectually shelved.  At the dress rehearsal she was disconsolate.

“That isn’t so bad,” said the author, the manager noting the curious effect which Carrie’s blues had upon the part.  “Tell her to frown a little more when Sparks dances.”

Carrie did not know it, but there was the least show of wrinkles between her eyes and her mouth was puckered quaintly.

“Frown a little more, Miss Madenda,” said the stage manager.

Carrie instantly brightened up, thinking he had meant it as a rebuke.

“No; frown,” he said.  “Frown as you did before.”

Carrie looked at him in astonishment.

“I mean it,” he said.  “Frown hard when Mr. Sparks dances.  I want to see how it looks.”

It was easy enough to do.  Carrie scowled.  The effect was something so quaint and droll it caught even the manager.