As I came back to my real surroundings, M. Bènot was saying: "Eleven o'clock sharp to-morrow, ladies and gentlemen, for rehearsal."
People began hurrying out. I waited a little, till nearly all were gone, whispering "Miss Ethel for Anne, Miss Ethel for Anne" when the handsome "Argosy of wealth" sailed up to me, and, in a voice of sweet uncertainty, said: "I wonder if you can possibly recognize me?"
"Oh, yes," I answered, smiling broadly, "we recognized each other at the moment you entered, Miss Newton."
She reddened and stammered something about "not being quite sure—and out West, and now here," and as she was even prettier than when I had last seen her, I told her so, and—we were happy ever after.
Then I slipped out of the theatre and crossed to Twenty-first Street safely, but could control my grief and pain, my mortification and my disappointment, no longer. Tears would have their way, and I held my sunshade low before my tear-washed, grieving face. Those little ill-suppressed smiles at my clothes, those slightly lifted eyebrows, and there was not even a single introduction to shelter me to-morrow, and as to Blanche, oh, I thought "let her wait till I get home!"
At last mother opened the door for me. I flung the hat from my aching head, and as she silently tied a wet handkerchief about my throbbing temples, I blurted out three words: "A comedy part!" and fell face downward on the bed, and cried until there was not a tear left in me, and considering my record as a shedder of tears, that's saying a good deal. Afterward I knelt down and hid my shamed face in the pillow and asked forgiveness from the ever-pitiful and patient One above, and prayed for a clear understanding of the part entrusted to me. Oh, don't be shocked. I have prayed over my work all my life long, and I can't think the Father despises any labor that is done to His honor. And I humbly gave over my further thought of Anne, and praying pardon for the folly of "kicking against the pricks" and wasting my scant strength in useless passion, I retired, at peace with myself, the world, and even Blanche.
Next morning a curious thing happened. I heard, or thought I heard, the words: "The first shall be last and the last shall be first," and I called from my bed: "Did you speak to me, mother?" and she answered, "No."
As I sat over my coffee and rolls, I said, absently: "The first shall be last, and the last shall be first."
"What do you mean?" mother asked.
"Nothing," I said. "The words were in my ears when I awoke, and they keep coming back to me."