She vas forty when she bade adieu to the public.
I am her only child. I have no talent for
music—I wish I had!—The drama is my passion.
I am a dramatic writer. I am thirty years old.
I have spoiled reams of paper. I have not
succeeded. And here I am."

I did not excite and madden the patient by
begging him not to excite himself, but led him
gently onward: very sure that he had not told
his story out, and that he would be much the
better for telling it all. Then it appeared that
he had come to New Orleans at the beginning
of the theatrical season, with a play; he had
filled some subordinate parts in which the
heaviest tax on his memory had been to say
"My lord, the dinner waits;" he had made
himself generally useful on the hope of two pounds
a week in the future, and with the acquisition of
nothing in the present. He and his mother had
hidden from friends a long time, because they
were poor and proud. He had tried his fortune
away from his mother, but—it was the old
impracticable unsuccessful story—he had been
able to do nothing to earn money, except when
by a miraculous accident he sometimes got a
guinea for a poem. He had not taken to his
bed, as I believe, until he was too shabby to
appear at the theatre, or anywhere else: nor
until his poor old mother's wardrobe had turned
to dust and ashes. His play had been for weeks
in the hands of the manager, and the manager
had promised to submit it to Mademoiselle
L'Etoile, the great actress, who—it then came
out at last—was the light of the poor fellow's
existence. It was to his admiration of her, and
the poor mother's want of money for common
necessaries, that she owed the offer of the little
King Charles, which I had witnessed.

His eyes burned when he spoke of her. "Oh!
for anything I know, she may have read my play.
There maybe a letter for me at the office of the
theatre, accepting it. Miracles have happened,
and may happen again." Then his eyes dimmed,
and he said sadly, "Not to me, not to me."

"I will see you again to-morrow, Mr. Eversley,
and I will call at the theatre and ask if there are
any letters for you there." He pressed my hand
most gratefully, and said: "We have your money;
the blessing of those who were on the eve of
perishing, is yours. Sister Angela knew the purse
to be yours that my mother found in the basket.
She said one of their children worked it." On
receipt of this bit of information I ran away.

I went to the theatre and found some letters
for Eversley. I would let him rest to-night, I
thought, and to-morrow he should see them.
Disappointment would come soon enough.

On the morrow, I returned to Mop-alley.
The beautiful Mademoiselle L'Etoile herself was
sitting in the little outer room. It was filled
with her ample draperies (I think they were
crushed a little by its limits); the perfume of
roses pervaded the place; and the little silken
dog lay on her lace kerchief. Just as grandly
had the withered prima donna been clothed in
her day of youth, beauty, and power, no doubt.
But I was pleased to see that a change had
passed over Mrs. Eversley, who was clad in
lady-like plain black, and was otherwise quite
elegantly though plainly dressed. (I learned
afterwards from Sister Angela that her wardrobe
had been replenished by Mademoiselle L'Etoile,
"who," said Sister Angela, and bless her again
for it! "is an actress if you will, but is as good
and charitable as any noble lady.")

I passed through the small room as the
beautiful creature took her leave. The patient's
burning eyes met mine. "You have seen her,"
he said, " and I have heard her, and the sweet
perfume of her presence fills this poor place.
She little knew what passionate heart-beatings
were near her."

"I have brought you letters," I said, cutting
short the rhapsody.

He opened one; but his sight was weak and
the light indistinct. He asked me to read it aloud.

It was from the manager, and only said that
he had submitted Mr. Eversley's manuscript to
Mademoiselle L'Etoile, and that she would transmit
her opinion of its merits to the author. He
grasped my hand. "I can never open that
letter," he said. "It is from her." I broke
the seal at his entreaty; delicate wax, and a
coronet; perfumed rose-coloured paper; ink
heavenly hued; writing (I grieve to say
it) crude, almost child-like; spelling
absolutely phonetic. There was a suppressed
enthusiasm when she mentioned the merits of the
play—a moderation evidently due to the
manager; still, she informed Mr. Eversley that
she would have a great pleasure in being the
heroine, that she strongly believed she was not
mistaken, and that if she were not, "you and
me will make a most grand sucksess."

Sister Angela came to my aid when the patient
fell back and fainted, and, besides restoring him,
gave me wise advice and direction how best to
execute my purpose of removing him to another
lodging. In two days the abode of utter
poverty was left to other poor, who rejoiced in it
as a mansion, and Eversley and his mother were
established in the country. There were orange-trees
before their windows, laden with flowers
and fruits; and mocking-birds sat in their
branches day and night, and poured out their
song of songs, and ever-varying cascade of
sweetest harmonies. The play, "The Doom of
Marat," was an overwhelming success, and the
ill-spelt note cured Eversley, not only of fever
and despair, but of a morbid love-fit. The last
time I saw the successful dramatic author and
poet—and it was not by any means in Mop-alley
—he told me he was happy in two disinterested
sisters: Mademoiselle L'Etoile, and Sister Angela
of St. Vincent de Paul. And I believe he would
as soon think of marrying the one, as the other.

On Thursday, the Third of December will be published,
price 4d.,

MRS. LIRRIPER'S LODGINGS,
FORMING
The Extra Double Number for Christmas.