"
"Come, come, Miriam," said Mr. Walraven, uneasily, "don't be
cantankerous. Let by-gones be by-gones. I'm sorry for the past--I am
indeed, and am willing to do well for the future. Sit down and be
sociable, and tell me all about it. How came you to let the little
one go on the stage first?"
Miriam spurned away the proffered chair.
"I spurn it as I would your dead body if it lay before me, Carl
Walraven! Sit down with you? Never, if my life depended on it! The child
became an actress because I could keep her no longer--I couldn't keep
myself--and because she had the voice and face of an angel--poor little
wretch! The manager of a band of strolling players, passing through our
village, heard her baby voice singing some baby song, and pounced upon
her on the instant. We struck a bargain, and I sold her, Mr.
Walraven--yes, sold her."
"You wretch! Well?"
"Well, I went to see her occasionally afterward, but not often, for the
strolling troupe were here, there, and everywhere--from pillar to post.
But I never lost sight of her, and I saw her grow up a pretty, slender,
bright-eyed lass, well dressed, well fed, and happy--perfectly happy in
her wandering life.
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