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50 Vineclad Post and came to ask her advice, whether she thought she ought to study for the stage. That’s all.”

Florimel’s eyes danced and Mrs. Mivle and the elderly actress of youthful parts twinkled back at her.

“The little one has the drop on you, my dear,” Mrs. Mivle said joyously to Jane. “She’s got practical sense. I guess you’re up in the clouds; red-haired girls often are. But you’ve got hair that ’twould be worth being up into anything—or up against anything to have! If you’ve got a good home, what you botherin’ about? Stick to it; that’s what I say. I’m an artist all right, all right; you read what your paper says about me. But no art in mine, if I had the means to settle right down and bake pies like mother used to make. Must you go? Well, good-bye and good luck. So long! Hope to meet you again. Come see us act if ever we take in this town on this circuit again. We’re the real thing, if I do say it!” The others of the company bade Jane and Florimel good-bye, shaking hands with them with the utmost cordiality, and Peter Mivle, or “Sydney Fleming,” escorted them to the stairs.

Jane heard the laugh that arose behind them