I fell asleep again, but was up and ready at nine for our rather-foreign breakfast of coffee, rolls, and salad. Now in our partnership mother was mistress of the house, and I, doing the outside work, being the wage-winner, was the man of the house, and as such had the master's inalienable right to the morning paper with my coffee. That the mistress occasionally peeped at the headlines before the master rose was a fact judiciously ignored by both, so long as the paper was ever found neatly folded beside the waiting coffee-cup. Imagine then my surprise when, coming into the room, I found my mother sitting at table with the badge of authority in her own hands, and my cup standing shorn of all its dignity. She avoided my eye, and hastily pouring coffee, said: "Drink it while it's hot, dear, and—and I'll just glance at the paper a moment."
I sat back and stared, and I was just beginning to laugh at our small comedy when I discovered that mother, she of the rock-steady nerves, was trembling. Without looking up, she said again: "Drink your coffee—I'll give you the paper presently."
I sipped a little and watched. She was not reading a line. I put down the cup. "Mother," said I, "is there anything in that paper that will interest me?"
She looked up hastily: "Drink your coffee, and I'll——"
"Is there?" I broke in.
Tears rose in her eyes. "Y-y-yes," she stammered, "there is something here that will interest—rather that will grieve you, but if you would please take your coffee!"
I caught up the cup and emptied it at a draught, then held out my hand. Mother gave me the paper and left the room; as her first sob reached my ear, I read: "Sudden death of the actor, Joseph Barrett." I sat staring stupidly, and before I saw another word there came to my ears the shivering of leaves, and a grave voice, saying: "It is a message from the dying or—the dead—believe that."
"What," I asked, dully, "what is a message?" and then the blood chilled at my heart as I recalled "the lament," Joe had said: "It is a message from the dying—or the dead."
After rehearsal, Mr. Daly wished to see me in his bit of a staircase-office in front of the house. He desired help in deciding about several scenes he meant to have built from old engravings. Suddenly he came to a stand-still. "What's the matter with you?" he cried; "where are your splendid spirits? you have been absent and heavy all morning—what's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing much," I began, when he angrily interrupted: "For heaven's sake, spare me that senseless answer. If you won't tell me, say so. Refuse me your confidence, if you choose, but don't treat me as though I were a fool by saying nothing, when you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"