I soon discovered that poor Semantha was very ambitious; yes, in spite of her faint German accent and the amusing abundance of negatives in her conversation, she was ambitious.  One night we had been called on to “go on” as peasants and sing a chorus and do a country dance, and poor Semantha had sung so freely and danced so gracefully and gayly, that it was a pleasure to look at her.  She was such a contrast to the two others.  One had sung in a thin nasal tone, and the expression of her face was enough to take all the dance out of one’s feet.  With frowning brows and thin lips tightly compressed, she attacked the figures with such fell determination to do them right or die, that one could hardly help hoping she would make a mistake and take the consequences.  The other,—­the woolly-brained young person,—­having absolutely no ear for music or time, silently but vigorously worked her jaws through the chorus, and affably ambled about, under everybody’s feet, through the dance, displaying all the stiff-kneed grace of a young, well-meaning calf.

When we were in our room, I told Semantha how well she had sung and danced, and her face was radiant with delight.  Then becoming very grave, she said:  “Oh, fraeulein, how I vant to be an actor!  Not a common van, but” and she laid her hand with a childish gesture on her breast—­“I vant to be a big actor.  Don’ you tink I can ever be von—­eh?”

And looking into those bright, intelligent, squirrel-like eyes, I answered, “I think it is very likely,” Poor Semantha! we were to recall those simple remarks, later on.

Christmas being near, I was very busy working between acts upon something intended for a present to my mother.  This work was greatly admired by all the girls; but never shall I forget the astonishment of poor Semantha when she learned for whom it was intended.

“Your mutter lets you love her yet—­you would dare?” And as I only gazed dumbly at her, she went on, while slow tears gathered in her eyes, “My mutter hasn’t let me love her since—­since I vas big enough to be knocked over.”

Through the talkativeness of an extra night-hand or scene-shifter, who knew her family, I learned something of poor Semantha’s private life.  Poor child! from the very first she had rested her bright brown eyes upon the wrong side of life,—­the seamy side,—­and her own personal share of the rough patchwork, composed of dismal drabs and sodden browns and greens, had in it just one small patch of rich and brilliant colour,—­the theatre.  Of the pure tints of sky and field and watery waste and fruit and flower, she knew nothing.  But what of that! had she not secured this bit of rosy radiance, and might it not in time be added to, until it should incarnadine the whole fabric of her life?