“Three young men!” she echoed in disdain. “You’d better say two young men and one little boy. You’re nothing but a child, you know, and only allowed to be up so late as a special indulgence, just for this once.”
Leon’s answering shot was prevented by the rising of the curtain, and from that time on, they thought nothing more of themselves or the audience, as they followed one of the most brilliant young actors of his day in his changing fortunes, now at the country farm, now in the excitement of London life, then back to the quiet home once more; now laughing almost convulsively at the rustic’s struggles to attain the height of city fashion, and now finding their eyes grow suddenly dim as he turned from his scoffing friends to welcome his good old mother, in spite of her strange, eccentric garb. In reality, it was only for two or three hours that they sat there; but as the curtain fell, it seemed to them that months had passed since they entered the theatre, and that they had lived through the scenes which had gone on before them, for with rare power and skill, the young hero avoided any professional manner, but with his rich touches of fun, his grandly simple pathos, he stood in all their eyes, not as an actor, but as a living, human man.
They did not talk much while they were driving home through the quiet, snowy streets, for they were thinking of the play, and of their parting, the next morning. But the stir of getting out of the carriage and going into the house had roused them all, so that four rosy, wide-awake young people entered the parlor, laughing and talking in a blithe chorus. Mr. and Mrs. Arnold looked up to greet them, as they came in.
“You ought to have gone, mother,” Harry exclaimed. “It was too funny for anything. I thought Leon would roll out of his chair, laughing.”
“After all,” added Dorothy, as she went up to the fire; “funny as it all was, there was a cry under the laugh, till I didn’t know whether ’twas more funny or sad.”
“Come, Dot, stop your wisdom and give us a song to top off with,” demanded Harry, who stood leaning against the mantel, looking down on his pretty sister with evident approval.
“I will,” said she, with her usual readiness; “and I’ll choose this one because, if anything can teach us to appreciate our homes and parents, it ought to be the little story we have watched to-night.”
Dorothy spoke with a sweet, gentle seriousness quite unusual with her, for she was much like Leon in her bright, merry disposition, and inclined to treat life as one long, happy frolic. Perhaps the tender passages in the play had touched her girlish heart, perhaps she had some dim realization of what the future had in store for her. However it might have been, she threw aside her wraps, drew off her long, light gloves and, going over to the piano, she sang the simple little song from “The Water Babies,” which stood as the motto for the play.
“When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;