He rented a box at her theater. He was there every night before the
curtain drew up; and I'm sorry to say, he at last took half a dislike to
Sunday--Sunday "which knits up the raveled sleave of care," Sunday "tired
nature's sweet restorer," because on Sunday there was no Peg Woffington.
At first he regarded her as a being of another sphere, an incarnation of
poetry and art; but by degrees his secret aspirations became bolder. She
was a woman; there were men who knew her; some of them inferior to him in
position, and, he flattered himself, in mind. He had even heard a tale
against her character. To him her face was its confutation, and he knew
how loose-tongued is calumny; but still-- !

At last, one day he sent her a letter, unsigned. This letter expressed
his admiration of her talent in warm but respectful terms; the writer
told her it had become necessary to his heart to return her in some way
his thanks for the land of enchantment to which she had introduced him.
Soon after this, choice flowers found their way to her dressing-room
every night, and now and then verses and precious stones mingled with her
roses and eglantine. And oh, how he watched the great actress's eye all
the night; how he tried to discover whether she looked oftener toward his
box than the corresponding box on the other side of the house. Did she
notice him, or did she not? What a point gained, if she was conscious of
his nightly attendance. She would feel he was a friend, not a mere
auditor. He was jealous of the pit, on whom Mrs. Woffington lavished her
smiles without measure.

At last, one day he sent her a wreath of flowers, and implored her, if
any word he had said to her had pleased or interested her, to wear this
wreath that night. After he had done this he trembled; he had courted a
decision, when, perhaps, his safety lay in patience and time. She made
her _entree;_ he turned cold as she glided into sight from the prompter's