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drew his sword in answer and a wonderful freeform swordfight began. At first, the captain was easy on the boy, but as Peter exhibited his apparent skill, the man began to respond without reluctance. As M. Girrold thrust, Peter parried each move without hesitation. Soon the boy gained the advantage relegating his opponent to a somewhat frantic defense. Like a whirling dervish possessed, Peter cut, parried, and twirled across the stage in a most impressive display. Only when he had bested the Fight Captain, separating him from his weapon, did he look at Mr. Boucicault, who in turn was staring at Monsieur Girrold . The entire company, who had been watching, broke out in enthusiastic applause.
      “The boy is D’Artagnon incarnate!” exclaimed the breathless Captain as he retrieved his sword. “Peter, surely you were a swashbuckler in another life! Where did you learn to do that?”
    Peter shrugged.
    “He has always been able to do that,” Griffin replied proudly.
    Shaking his head, Mr. Boucicault bellowed to the company, “What are you waiting for? Get the boy in costume, practice the fight sequences, and run the lines to all D’Artagnon’s scenes. After all, the show must go on!”
    His dream finally within his grasp, Peter rushed to get ready, so overjoyed he thought he might crow.
     

    Wendy seated herself excitedly in the first row of the Royal Circle and began examining her programme . She loved the story of the Three Musketeers and greatly anticipated this new production. Over the past fortnight, she had worked herself into more than one agitation trying to visualize the cast enacting her most beloved scenes. Little did she realize how much the production would exceed her expectations.
    The girl scanned the curtained stage. Something more than anticipation tugged at her hopes. A pull, nearly magnetic in nature, caused her eyes to fix on the far right corner—the actors’ stage left—as if the meaning of life, itself, were there and about to reveal all its mysteries to her.
    “Wendy dear,” exclaimed Maimie pulling out a handsomely feathered fan. “The play has not yet begun and already you are flushed and trembling. You must try to calm yourself. You will never attract a husband in such a tizzy.”
    At the word husband Wendy looked up sharply. “Do not even presume to joke about such matters, Maimie. James will not be put off much longer. Father and Mother seem to quarrel fortnightly about how to press him for an engagement. Aunt Mildred shamelessly flatters his great aunt and grandmamma. Even the dressmaker is dropping hints. Every time she comes, she brings sketches of the latest wedding gown designs from Paris. I am at my wit’s end! Truly you and this theatre are the only bits of peace afforded me.”
    “Even this,” Maimie gestured around her, “may soon be coming to an end. Mother says that once I marry, it will not do for the Viscountess Withington of Perrin Hall to appear in society unchaperoned and without her husband. Guessing on Lord Withington’s tastes, I shall be doomed to a box at the Opera.”
    “The Opera?” Wendy exclaimed in horror and grasped her friend’s hand. “Oh Maimie, what will I do when you become a bride? I shall die of loneliness.”
    “You will marry, too, and everything will turn out right in the end. You will see.”
    Shaking her head, Wendy closed her eyes and sighed. “Aunt Mildred is odious indeed, but for the sake of this” indicating the theatre with a sweep of her hand “I shall have to endure.”
    “If only you married, you would gain independence from the old spinster’s iron fist.”
    “And trade it for the control of a husband? I have always wanted a family of my own, to be a mother, but at what cost, dear friend?”
    An expectant hush fell over the theatre. Wendy turned her attention again toward the stage to see Mr. Charles Frohman, the producer and an American, standing before them.
    “Ladies and Gentlemen, the part of D’Artagnon will be