'Do you, my sweet child? How wise we are, to be sure! But I don't blame you. What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. I tell you what, Chris! On the first night that Jessie plays, you and I will go arm-in-arm to the theatre.'
'No, we will not.'
'Why, my sweet child?' she inquired, not in the least disturbed by my abrupt tone.
'Because I have not made up my mind whether I shall be there.'
'Oh, indeed!' she said, with a little laugh.
I was not ingenuous in my reply, for I had quite resolved to go, and to go early. During the days that intervened between my meeting with Jessie and her announced first appearance I was very busy with important work. This kept me close to my bench, and I did not have time even to visit Turk, but it did not prevent me from thinking constantly of Jessie. What would be the result if she made a great success? Would she grow into a fine lady, and would her picture be in all the shop-windows? What was the nature of the connection between her and Mr. Glover? What were her feelings now towards her father? I found a hundred different answers to these questions, not one of which brought any satisfaction or consolation to me. But I could not relinquish the consideration of them, and, in the usual way, I extracted from them as much unhappiness as they would fairly yield.
'My mother knew where I was going when I prepared myself on the evening that Jessie was to make her first appearance before the public, and as she kissed me she said she did not expect me home very early. I nodded, and left her. I could not trust myself to speak, for I felt as though my own fate were about to be definitely decided by the issue of this night's events. I arrived at the theatre before the time announced for the opening of the doors, and to my surprise, instead of finding, as I expected, a great mass of people pressing towards the entrances, I found a few scores of persons standing loosely about the closed doors, grumbling and wondering at notices which were pasted on the walls to the effect that in consequence of the indisposition of the new actress the opening of the theatre was postponed. The disappointment to those assembled was the greater because the play in which Jessie was to appear was the first dramatic work of a new author, who, although his name was not given on the bills, it was said was a nobleman well known in fashionable circles. While I was reading the notice, and tormenting myself with the idea that Jessie must be seriously ill, Turk accosted me.
'Hallo, Chris,' he said, hooking his arm in mine; 'this is a surprise, isn't it?'
'Is Jessie very ill, Turk?' I asked anxiously.
He looked at me inquiringly, seemingly in doubt as to whether I was in earnest in asking the question. I repeated it.