i made my first visit to the theatre. aunt gwendolin said i should not go until i came out, but uncle theodore said he would take me himself, and defy all fashions and formalities.

"i enjoy seeing the little girl absorbing our civilisation," he said to grandmother; "sometimes i fancy it seems rather uncivilised to her."

grandmother demurred a good deal; she said she did not know but i would be quite as well, or better, if i never went near a theatre. but uncle theodore said that was an old-fashioned idea that grandmother held to because of her puritan ancestry; that it was generally conceded now that the theatre is a great educator, the greatest educator of the people extant to-day.

"there is going to be a world-renowned actress to-night, a star of first magnitude in the theatrical world," he added, "and i want my niece to have the advantage of hearing her."

i dressed my very prettiest for the occasion. uncle theodore always has an eye for the artistic in dress. i donned soft silks, soft ribbons, and soft feathers. it is one of my uncle's ideas that women should be softly clad; he absolutely hates anything hard, stiff, or masculine-looking on a woman.

when we entered the theatre the orchestra was playing most ravishing music. i could have stayed there all night and listened to it without tiring, i believe. it must be the american half of me that is the music-lover, for the chinese are not very musical.

the boxes were full of wonderfully well-dressed men and women. how beautiful women can look in this great country, dressed in every colour of the rainbow! men are of less account in america; but they looked well enough, too, in black coats and white shirt-bosoms.

after awhile the heavenly music stopped, the curtain on the stage rolled up, and the play began.

at first it was entrancing, magnificent—the stage-furnishings, gorgeously dressed women, clever-looking men, all acting a part—a lovely world without anything to mar it, right there in that small space of the stage before our eyes.

then a woman, the star actress, came in wearing a very décolleté gown (i am getting hardened to them now), and began to talk in a manner i never had imagined people in good society would talk—right before those hundreds of men and women. i'll not write it down; i do not wish to remember it. but the party of women on the stage, instead of being shocked or ashamed, all laughed little, rippling, merry laughs. my cheeks burned, and i did not dare to look at anybody, not even uncle theodore.

after that i could not like the theatre any more and drawing away within myself, i looked and listened as if the actors had been hundreds of miles from me.

when the play was over and we were on the way home uncle theodore said: "if i had known the nature of the play, i would not have taken you to-night, pearl."

"but i," i cried, "i am only one! there were hundreds of people being educated as well as i!"

uncle theodore turned and looked at me quickly; then he said coldly:

"my dear, you have a great deal yet to learn."

when we reached home i went at once upstairs to my room, and uncle theodore retired to his den.

neither of us has ever mentioned the subject since.

cousin ned is around morning, noon, and night now. he is walking with a crutch, having had his shin kicked at a foot-ball match.