MADEMOISELLE ANGELA. 167

The girl sighed again; and wiped away the tears
which this kindness had called forth. “| have
heard a great deal of you, Mademoiselle Angela,”
she said ; “‘ everybody talks of you, and I have heard
that you are very good, but Ihave nothing to tell you
that can interest you much, there are alas, so many
unfortunate people in London.”

“The unfortunate are always interesting to me,”
said the actress, with that air of simple, emphatic
truth which was her distinguishing characteristic.

Marianne felt its influence, and replied, “* There are
circumstances connected with my family which are
of a painful and altogether private nature—my
father, who is old in experience and sorrow, rather
than in years, and who is now helpless as a child in
mind and body, has been wholly dependent upon me
for the last twelve months. He was extremely fond
of me ; he expected that I should make my fortune
by marriage ; what little money we have had he has
risked to make more for my sake—and all has been
lost! We have now been in London a year and a
half, and in that time I have tried endless means of
obtaining our livelihood. I have been well educated,
and as I know myself as well qualified for teaching
as nine out of ten who do teach, I offered myself as
daily governess, as teacher in a school, as instructor
in various ways, but there always were for such
situations twenty or more applicants besides myself,
all of whom came supported by friends or interest of
some kind or other. I had none. I tried to take
pupils, but none came. I made fancy-work of all
kinds, and taught it, but by this I lost money. I
painted miniatures—children, dogs, cats, parrots, any-
thing—and if dogs, cats, and parrots had alone been