Greatly to Mr. Ronald Atwell's chagrin, Constance Stevens began suddenly to show a marked improvement in her work that did not in the least coincide with his plans. Influenced by Mignon's tale of her wrongs, laid principally at Constance's door, albeit Marjorie, too, came in for her share of blame, he had taken a dislike to the gentle girl and lost no opportunity to humiliate her. Privately, he regarded the entire cast, Mignon included, as a set of silly children, and his only regard for Mignon lay in a wholesome respect for her father's money. At heart he was not a scoundrel, he was merely vain and selfish, and imbued with a profound sense of his own importance. It had pleased his fancy to assume the charge of the staging of the operetta, but now he was growing rather tired of it and wished that it were over.

Long before this he and Mignon had come to a definite understanding regarding the operetta. Mignon had informed him boldly that she wished to sing the part of the Princess, and he had assured her that he would arrange matters to her satisfaction. It, therefore, became incumbent upon him to keep his word. He had begun his persistent annoying of Constance, convinced that, unable to endure it, she would resign and leave the field of honor free to the French girl. But Constance did nothing of the sort. She stood her ground, half-heartedly at first, but afterward, with Marjorie's words ringing in her ears, she exhibited a steadiness of purpose that he could not shake.

At the dress rehearsal, the last before the public performance, she was a brilliant success, compelling even his reluctant admiration. It was now too late even to consider the possibility of Mignon replacing her, and he informed the latter rather sheepishly of this, as he rode home with her in her electric runabout.

For the first and last time he had the pleasure of seeing Mignon in a royal rage, and when they reached her home, he declined her sullen offer to send him home in her automobile, and made his escape with due speed. Deciding he had had enough of amateurs and amateur operettas, he mailed a note to Professor Harmon excusing himself from further service on the plea of a telegram summoning him to New York. Whether the telegram were a myth, history does not record. Sufficient to say that he actually went to New York the following afternoon. And thus "The Rebellious Princess" lost a stage manager and Mignon the hitherto chief factor in her plans. She was also the recipient of an apologetic note from the actor, which caused her to clench her hands in rage, then shrug her thin shoulders with a gesture that did not spell defeat. Somehow, in some way, she would accomplish her purpose. Even at the eleventh hour she would not acknowledge herself beaten. Yet as the day wore on toward evening she could think of nothing to do that would bring her her unreasonable desire.

The operetta was to be sung in the Sanford Theatre, where the dress rehearsal had been held. Furious almost to tears at her inability to bring about the impossible, Mignon at last ordered her runabout and made sulky preparations to start for the theatre. The possession of an automobile gave her the advantage of being able to don her first act costume at home, but her really attractive appearance in the fanciful gown of the heartless step-sister afforded her no pleasure. She hooked it up pettishly, made a face at herself in the mirror of her dressing table, and, drawing her evening cloak about her, flounced downstairs to her runabout, completely out of humor with the world in general.

She drove along recklessly, as was her custom, and when half way to the theatre narrowly missed running down a small, sturdy figure that was marching across the street.

"Naughty old wagon," screamed a familiar voice after her.

At sound of that piping voice, Mignon stopped her car and peered out. Trotting along the sidewalk a little to her rear was a small boy with a diminutive violin case tucked under his arm. Little Charlie Stevens had come forth once more to see the world. In a flash wicked inspiration came to Mignon. The Stevens child was running away again, but this time he had chosen an evening exactly to her liking. Slipping out of her car she ran toward the boy. "Why, good evening, little boy," she called pleasantly. "Where are you going?"

"I know you. You're a naughty girl!" observed Charlie with more truth than courtesy. He braced himself defiantly and regarded Mignon with patent disapproval.

"I am so sorry you think so." Mignon affected a sadness which she was far from feeling at this unvarnished statement. "I was going to take you for a ride and buy you some ice cream."

Charlie considered this astonishing offer in silence. He stared frowningly at Mignon. "Is it chok'lit ice cream?" he asked, eyeing her in open disbelief.

"Of course it is. As much as you can eat."

"All right. I want some. But you're a naughty girl, just the same. Mary said so."

Mignon shrugged indifferently. She was not greatly concerned at either his or Mary's opinion of her. "Come on, if you want a ride," she urged.

Charlie obeyed with some show of reluctance. He was not sure that even the prospect of ice cream warranted his surrender. Mignon caught him up and swung him into the runabout. Her wrist watch pointed to fifteen minutes past seven. She had no time to lose. She drove rapidly through the town to a small confectioner's store at the other end. Charlie kept up a lively chatter as they rolled along. Stopping before it she lifted the boy from the automobile, and, taking his hand, hurried him into the brightly lighted store. Seating him at a table, she ordered two plates of chocolate ice cream and sat down opposite the boy, her black eyes glittering as she watched him eat. From time to time she glanced at her watch. When the child had finished his plate of cream, she pushed her own toward him. "Eat it," she commanded.

Charlie responded nobly to the command. When she saw the last spoonful vanish, she smiled elfishly. It was eight o'clock. The operetta began at half past eight. Allowing herself fifteen minutes to reach the theatre and carry out the last step in her plan, she would arrive there at fifteen minutes past eight.

The wandering musician made strenuous objection, however, to leaving the ice cream parlor. "I could eat more chok'lit cream," he informed her.

"You are a greedy boy," she said, her former friendliness vanishing into angry impatience. "Come with me this minute."

"You're a cross old elefunt," was Charlie's crushing but inappropriate retort.

Mignon was in no mood for an exchange of pleasantries. Seizing Charlie by the arm she hustled him out of the shop into her runabout, and was off like the wind. When half way between the shop and the theatre, she halted her car. Lifting the boy out she set him on the sidewalk before he had time to protest. "Now go where you please. I'll tell Connie to come and find you," was her malicious farewell. Stepping into the runabout she drove away, leaving Charlie Stevens to take care of himself as best he might.

Although Mignon was unaware of the fact, there had been an amazed witness to the final scene in her little drama. A fair-haired girl had come up just in time to hear her heartless speech and see her drive away, leaving a small, perplexed youngster on the sidewalk. That girl was Mary Raymond. She had steadily refused Marjorie's earnest plea that she attend the much-talked-of performance of "The Rebellious Princess," and directly after dinner that evening, on the plea of mailing a letter, had slipped from the house on one of her melancholy, soul-searching walks which she had become so fond of taking. Convinced that she was an utter failure, imbued with a daily growing sense of her own unfitness to be the friend of a girl like Marjorie Dean, Mary was plunged into the depths of humiliation and unhappiness. This alone had been the cause of the marked change in her that Marjorie had innocently attributed to Mignon's defection. In her sad little soul there was now no bitterness against Constance Stevens. Quite by chance she had one day not long past encountered Jerry Macy in Sargent's, alone. Touched by her woe-begone air, Jerry had taken pains to draw her out. With her usual shrewdness the stout girl had discovered the real cause of Mary's depression, and kindly advised her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Marjorie. Jerry had also made it a point to inform Mary, so far as she knew the details, of the trouble over the butterfly pins during Marjorie's freshman year, and of Mignon's cruel treatment of Constance. Distinctly to Jerry's credit, she told no one afterward of that chance meeting, yet she secretly hoped that what she had said would have its effect upon Mary.

Overwhelmed with shame, Mary had left the talkative, stout girl and dragged herself home, in an agony of humiliation that can be better imagined than described. She felt that she could never forgive herself for the ignoble thoughts she had harbored against innocent Constance Stevens, and she was still more certain that she could never ask either Marjorie or Constance to forgive her. Again and again she had tried to bring herself to approach Marjorie and humbly sue for pardon. The weight of her own troubled conscience prevented her from yielding, and thus she kept her sorrow locked in her aching heart and waited dejectedly for the day when she must leave the Deans' pleasant home, taking with her nothing but bitter self-reproach for her own folly.

It was in this black mood that Mary had wandered forth that evening and straight into the path of the very thing that was destined to bring her peace. Mignon had hardly driven away when Mary caught the venturesome youngster in her arms. The boy gave a jubilant little shout as he saw who held him. Mary, however, was still at a loss regarding the meaning of what she had seen.

"Every time the cross girl scolds Charlie, you come and get him," was the joyful exclamation. "She wasn't cross all the time. She gave Charlie a ride and lots of ice cream. Then she wented away. She said she'd tell Connie to come and find me. Connie's gone to the the'tre. I wented, too, but the naughty girl got Charlie."

"Charlie boy, try to tell Mary, where was he when the cross girl got him?"

"Way over there." Charlie waved an indefinite hand in the wrong direction.

Mary stood still, in a perplexed endeavor to read meaning in the nature of Mignon's strange action. Suddenly the light burst upon her. "Oh!" she cried, dismay written on every feature. "Now I begin to understand!" She glanced wildly about her. Far up the street shone the light of an oncoming street-car. Seizing Charlie by the hand she hurried him to the corner. It was not more than two minutes until the car came to a creaking stop before them. Mary helped Charlie into it and fumbled in her purse. She had just two nickels. Breathing her relief, she paid the fares, deposited Charlie on a seat beside her, then stared out the window in an anxious watch of the streets.

But while Mary Raymond was making a desperate attempt to redeem herself by at least one kind act, Mignon La Salle had reached the theatre. Dropping all appearance of haste, she strolled past the groups of gaily attired boys and girls, nodding condescendingly to this one and that, and switched downstairs to the dressing room which she occupied with several other girls. Leisurely removing her cloak, she plumed herself before the mirror. Her black eyes constantly sought her watch, however. At last she turned from the mirror with a peculiar smile and abruptly left the room. Straight to the star's dressing room she walked. Her thin fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the door. It opened, and she stood face to face with Constance Stevens, who was just about to take her place in the wings, preparatory to the beginning of the opera. She was to make her first entrance directly after the opening chorus.

"I came to tell you, Miss Stevens," said Mignon with an indescribable smile of pure malice, "that I saw your brother, Charlie, wandering along the street as I drove to the theatre. I suppose he has run away."

With a frightened cry, Constance dashed past her and up the stairs. Mignon laughed aloud as she watched the vanishing figure. "That settles her," she muttered. "Harriet Delaney can sing my part. She has understudied it." Springing into sudden action she ran to her dressing room, eluding a collision with the feminine portion of the chorus who were scurrying for the stage in obedience to a gong that summoned them to the wings. Reaching to a hook in the wall, from which depended her several costumes, hung over one another, she took from under them an almost exact copy of the gown Constance Stevens was wearing in the first act and held it up with a murmur of satisfaction. Stripping off the gown she wore she hastily donned this other costume. Then she sat down to await what she believed would happen.

But while Mignon busied herself with her own affairs, Constance was making a hurried search for Laurie Armitage. Unluckily, he had gone, for the moment, to the front of the house. Professor Harmon, too, was not in sight. He also had gone to the front to take his place in the orchestra pit. What could she do? The performance was about to begin. To leave the theatre on a search for Charlie meant disaster to Laurie's operetta. To leave Charlie to wander about the streets alone was even more terrifying. She flitted past the waiting choristers, drawn up for action, without a word of explanation. Marjorie Dean caught one look at her friend's terrified face. It was enough to convince her that something unusual had happened. Slipping out of her place in the line she followed Constance, who was making directly for the stage door. Marjorie saw her fling it open and glance wildly into the night. She ran toward Connie, calling out, "What is the matter?"

As the question crossed her lips both girls saw a familiar girlish figure, strangely burdened, running toward them as fast as the weight she carried would permit her to run. With a cry which rang in Marjorie's ears for days afterwards Constance darted forward. She wrapped the girl and her burden in a tumultuous embrace, laughing and crying in the same breath.

"The cross girl got Charlie, then she runned away and Mary comed and found him. Charlie's goin' to the the'tre to play in the band. Mary said so." He wriggled from the tangle of encircling arms to the stone walk. "Hello, Marj'ry," he greeted genially.

Marjorie turned from the marvelous sight of the two she loved best in each other's arms. It was too wonderful for belief. Tardy remembrance caused her to utter a dismayed, "You'll be late, Connie! Hurry in. Mary and I will take care of Charlie. It doesn't matter if I do miss the opening number."

With a swift glance at Mary that contained untold gratitude, Constance faltered, "I—love—you—Mary, for taking care of Charlie! I'll see you again as soon as I can. Good-bye!"

She was gone in a flash, leaving Mary and Marjorie to face each other with full hearts.

"You are my own, dear Mary again." Marjorie's clear voice was husky with emotion, "and my very first and best chum, forever!"

Mary nodded dumbly, her blue eyes overflowing. "I've—come—back—to—you—to stay," she whispered. And on the stone steps, worn by the passing of the feet of those who had entered the theatre to play many parts, these two young players in Life's varied drama enacted a little scene of love and forgiveness that was entirely their own.

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