“I’m sorry you’re not going to be with the company any more, Frank,” she said; “but I hope you’ll have luck in advance. You’ve been a good friend to me—and to Ross.”
“Yes, yes,” said Havener, quickly; “he has done a good turn for us both.”
Then he moved away to give some directions about setting the stage, leaving Frank and Cassie together.
The girl looked at Merriwell, a mournful expression in her face and eyes. Frank thought how great the change when she came on the stage at night, bounding, buoyant, vigorous, her eyes seeming to sparkle with life.
Merry knew the cause of that great change, and he wondered that Ross Havener did not see and understand. It seemed impossible that Havener should attribute the change entirely to excitement, for he must know that the sameness of stagework made it seem to the girl like any other occupation.
“I shall miss you, Frank,” said Cassie, in her melancholy manner. “You’re not like the rest of the crowd. You’re not common. Somehow, there seems to be something dreadfully common about actors.”
“That is not the general opinion of them,” smiled Frank.
“Oh, I know people generally think they’re freaks, but that’s because they don’t know the real truth about them. Actors are always posing so as to make folks believe they are out of the ordinary. You can see that in their photographs and everything. But you don’t have to pose, Frank, to show that you’re no common duffer.”
“Cassie! Cassie! spare my blushes!”
“I’m giving you straight goods. There’s a kind of air about you that shows you ain’t no common stuff. I can’t tell just what it is, but it’s there, all right. And I want to tell you something that I’ll bet my hat on; I’ll bet you’ll make a top-notch actor, if you stick to the profession. You won’t be satisfied to be just an ordinary twenty-five a week sidelight, but you’ll just climb up and up till you are a star.”