The Grand Opera house became a veritable fairyland of adventure for Petite Jeanne. In this place and in her own little theatre she felt herself to be in a place of refuge. There were guards about. Entrance to the place was only to be gained through long, tortuous ways of red tape and diplomacy. No dark-faced gypsy, no would-be kidnaper could enter here. Thus she reasoned and sighed with content. Was she right? We shall see.

One afternoon, when a brief rehearsal of some small parts was over, not expecting Florence for a half hour or more, she gathered up her possession, her precious God of Fire, and tripping down the hallway arrived before the door that led to the land of magic, the great stage of the Opera.
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Several times she had made her way shyly down this hall to open the door and peer into the promised land beyond. She had found it to be a place of magnificent transformations. Now it was a garden, now a castle, now a village green, and now, reverting to form, it was but a vast empty stage with a smooth board floor.

It was on this day only a broad space. Not a chair, not a shred of scenery graced the stage.

“How vast it is!” she whispered, as she looked in. She had been told that this stage would hold fifteen hundred people.

“What a place to dance all alone!”

The notion tickled her fancy. There was no one about. Slipping silently through the door, she removed her shoes; then, with the god still under her arm, she went tripping away to the front center of the stage. There, having placed her god in position, she drew a long breath and began to dance.
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It was a delicate bit of a fantastic dance she was doing. As she danced on, with the dark seats gaping at her, the place seemed to come to life. Every seat was filled. The place was deathly silent. She was nearing the end of her dance. One moment more—and what then? The thunder of applause?

So real had this bit of fancy become to her that she clasped her hand to her heart in wild exultation.

But suddenly for a fraction of time that racing heart stood still. Something terrible was happening. She all but lost her balance, spun round, grew suddenly dizzy and barely escaped falling. The end of a large section of the floor, had risen a foot above the level of the stage! It was still rising.

Her mind in a whirl, she sprang from the tilting floor to the level space just beyond.

But horror of horrors! This also began to tilt at a rakish angle. At the same time she realized in consternation that the Fire God was in danger of gliding down the section on which he rested and falling into the pit of inky blackness below.
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Risking her own neck, she sprang back to her former position, seized the god and went dashing away across section after section of madly rocking floors, to tumble at last into some one’s arms.

This someone was beyond the door in the hallway. Realizing dimly that only the stage floor and not the whole building was doing an earthquake act, she gripped her breast to still the wild beating of her heart and then looked into the face of her protector. Instantly her heart renewed its racing. The woman who held her tightly clasped was none other than the one who, in a cape of royal purple and white fox, had sat beside Solomon and witnessed their rehearsal—Marjory Bryce, the greatest prima donna the city had ever known. And she was laughing.

“Please forgive me!” she said after her mirth had subsided. “You looked so much like Liza crossing the ice with the child in her arms.”

“But—but what—” The little French dancer was still confused and bewildered.
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“Don’t you understand, child?” The prima donna’s tone was soft and kindly as a mother’s. Petite Jeanne loved her for it. “The floor is laid in sections. Each section may be raised or lowered by lifts beneath it. That is for making lakes, mountains, great stairways and many other things. Just now they are making a mountain; just for me. To-night I sing. Would you like to watch them? Have you time? It is really quite fascinating.”

“I—I’d love to.”

“Then come. Let us sit right here.” She drew a narrow bench from a hidden recess. “This section will not be lifted. We may remain here in safety.”

In an incredibly short time they saw the stage transformed into a giant stairway. After that, from somewhere far above the stage, dangling from ropes, various bits of scenery drifted down. Seized by workmen, these bits were fitted into their places and—

“Behold! Here is magic for you!” exclaimed the prima donna. “Here we have a mountain.”

As Petite Jeanne moved to the front of the stage she found herself facing a mountainside with slopes of refreshing green. A winding path led toward its summit. At the top of the path were the stone steps of a palace.
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“Come,” said her enchantress, “Come to the castle steps and rest with me for a time.”

As Jeanne followed her up the winding path she felt that she truly must be in fairyland. “And with such a guide!” she breathed.

“Now,” said the prima donna, drawing her down to a place beside herself, “we may sit here and tell secrets, or fortunes, or what would you like?” She laughed a merry laugh.

“Do you know,” she said as her mood changed, “you are really very like me in many ways? I sing in parts you might take without a make-up. I, who am very old,” she laughed once more, “I must be made up for them very much indeed.”

“Oh, no, surely not!” the little French dancer exclaimed. “You are very young.”

“Thank you, little girl.” The prima donna placed a hand upon her knee. “None of us wish to grow old. We would remain young forever and ever in this bright, beautiful and melodious world.

“I saw you dancing here this afternoon,” she went on after a moment’s silence.
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Jeanne started.

“Was it very terrible?”

“Oh, no. It was beautiful, exquisite!” The prima donna’s eyes shone with a frank truthfulness. Jeanne could not doubt. It made her feel all hot and cold inside.

“Would you like to dance before all that?” The smiling woman spread her arms wide. “All those seats filled with people?”

“Oh, yes!” Jeanne caught her breath sharply.

“It is really quite simple,” the lady went on. “You look up at the people, then you look back at the stage and at the ones who are to act or sing with you. Then you say: ‘I have only to do it all quite naturally, as if they, the people in the seats, were not there at all. If I do that they will be pleased. And when I succeed in doing that, they like me.’

“So you think you’d enjoy it,” she went on musingly.
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“Oh, yes; but—but not yet,” the little girl cried. “Sometime in the dreamy future. Now I want my own stage in my own sweet little theatre, and I want to be with just my own little Golden Circle.”

“Brave girl!” The prima donna seized ............