Papa would turn away with a shudder. He did not approve of Mama’s encouraging me in my desire to go on the stage, or of her taking me to matinees whenever we had a little extra money to spend. He would put on his hat and leave quietly by the back door to pray alone in church. To him McCourt Hall had merely been a place to bring in rentals. He never watched the shows and he felt our souls inclined too much toward the paths of sin.
One April evening in 1876 my brother, Peter, and I took a walk. I stopped to get up on an enormous keg of nails to peer through a window into a new house where the men had stopped work. Behind me, I heard my brother, Pete, say:
“Hello!”
I turned around, and there was a very nice-looking young man standing on a lumber pile, also inspecting what the workmen had accomplished. All of us young people were very much interested in this particular house because the owners had sent all the way to Chicago for the latest wall-papers. As far as I could see, they were gold and brown flowered patterns, but the dining-room paper was still in rolls on the floor, and looked as if it were going to be a red geometric design.
“Hello,” the young man said. “Is that your sister?”
“Yes,” Pete answered proudly, “my sister Elizabeth.”
“Hello,” the stranger said to me shyly, “I’m Harvey Doe.”
“Oh yes,” I replied, “I know who you are. Your father comes into the store.”
“Yes,” he answered slowly—and then with a rush, “and he says you’re the prettiest girl in town.”
After blurting out this he blushed, stepped off the lumber pile, and started down the street.