“When the season opened I left her and came back, back to the theater with its rows of light and entrancing music, back to the dinners and flowers and back to the flat and Riggles, for my mother I could do all. I was soon relieved of that responsibility, for mother died suddenly one day. I went home and for fear that her spirit might learn what I knew in regard to my father, I took all that remained and the casket containing the same, and buried it beside the only man she had loved. It was a cold, dreary day; snow, which was half rain when it struck the streets, was sifting heavily through the air. I arrived from the scene of death over the Burlington route; when I reached the Union Station it was eight o’clock, the atmosphere seemed tuned to my oppressed frame of mind; I thought to walk part way up town. I had gone but a short distance when I met a little girl about seven years old; she stopped me to beg. I looked her over, and there, under the flickering light, I saw a pinched face, so poor and thin that the drawn mouth only added pity to the expression of the big, blue eyes; the little calico frock which the wind whipped tightly around her skinny form looked as though it would fall to pieces with each gust. The pale forehead was made more ghostly by the large blue veins that were plainly seen, while the one poor little plait of hair seemed to add loneliness to the big, white ears, that I could see through.
“‘Where do you live?’ was my first remark.
“‘Oh, ma’m, I—I—don’t want to tell you, it isn’t a bit nice place, but you see, we can’t help it; mamma, she is sick and papa don’t have work all the time, and grandma, she is sick and papa he has to go stay at her house three nights a week, and that leaves mamma and me awful lonesome sometimes, but mamma told me to-day that she guessed she’d die before long, then I would go and live with grandma, then I could see papa every day. But, please, ma’m, I don’t want mamma to die; I don’t want to live with grandma, and I des know if mamma had somethin’ to eat she wouldn’t die, either.’
“I went with the child. I thanked God for having found her. Such a wretched place to live; four dingy rooms on an alley, a poor, miserable cook stove, made all the heat the apartment had. A grimy, smoking kerosene lamp in the hands of the child, led me to a coop of a bedroom and there, amid a pile of soiled and torn rubbish that had at some time been entitled to the name bed clothing, lay a half starved, pain-racked wretch, called woman, in filth too great for a beast, in pain too intense for a strong man to bear, burning with fever and shivering with chills, and at the same time moaning, tossing and suffering only as a neglected soul and body can suffer.
“I spoke to her; she tried to sit up in bed, but fell back with a wild stare which told that it would require but little excitement to bring an end to all her suffering. I went out and bought everything I could think of; I can even now feel a tinge of happiness, as I think of how I ordered the best imported delicacies; I bought coal, a new lamp, and sent a doctor. That night, when I arrived at my elaborately furnished apartments, I sat in my satin house robe and slippers and as my maid brushed my hair I compared my surroundings with those I had visited earlier in the evening, and became happy.
“At midnight the Prof. came; I had concluded I would not tell him of my experience of the evening; it was none of his business and now that mamma was gone, I had no one to care for and I could spend some of my salary in helping some poor soul.
“Next day I called on my patient, as I called her, again; this time I superintended and assisted in placing a new mattress and clean linen and blankets on the bed, then, after calling the janitor’s wife, and having her put a new gown on the woman, I left. I could not return that evening as I had notified the manager that I would be on for my part and the Prof. was going home with me after the theater, so I planned to go the next night after the performance, for he told me that he had been away from home two consecutive nights, and he ‘must show up’ at home that night. He bade me good-night, when I got into the carriage. My driver started out in the usual way for home, but owing to pre-arranged plans, turned west as soon as we were out of sight of the theater. I was soon in the sickroom and was delighted to see a great improvement; I carried my arms full of flowers and when the bedside was reached, the poor woman said, ‘Oh, these dear roses; that reminds me of when my husband used to have steady work at the theater, he nearly always brought home flowers that some of the ladies would give him, for he could not well afford to buy them, and me sick. Oh, you don’t know, Miss, what a burden I have been to him.’
“‘Did you say your husband was at some time employed at a theater,’ I asked, with bright visions of what a star might be able to do to get him a place.
“‘Yes, more than two years ago.’
“‘Tell him to come to me at the ⸺ theater tomorrow, and I will see if I cannot get him a place.’