I looked reproachfully at her, as I quietly answered: "But you see I am here;" then added, "I did not think you would make fun of me, Mrs. Bradshaw, I only tried to do my best."

"Oh," she replied, "one does not make fun of very successful people."

I turned away to hide my filling eyes, as I remarked: "Perhaps I'd better go away now."

I moved toward the door, wounded to the heart. I had thought she would be so pleased—you see, I was young yet, and sometimes very stupid—I forgot she had a daughter. But suddenly she called to me in the old, kindly voice I was so used to: "Come back Clara," she cried, "come back! It's mean to punish you for another's fault. My dear, I congratulate you; you have only proved what I have long believed, that you have in you the making of a fine actress. But when I think who had that same chance, and that it was deliberately thrown away," her lips trembled, "I—well, it's hard to bear. Even all this to-do about you in the part does not make her regret what she has done."

Poor mother! I felt so sorry for her. I wished to go away then, I thought my presence was unpleasant, but she made me tell her all about the evening, and describe Miss St. Clair's dress, and what everyone said and did. Loyal soul! I think that was a self-inflicted penance for a momentary unkindness.

Blanche gave me her usual kind greeting, and added the words: "Say, if I hadn't given you the chance, you couldn't have been a big gun to-day. You know Mr. Ellsler won't dare to give you anything, but he would have given me a nice present if I had done the part for him. So after all I've lost, I think you might give me a new piece of chewing-gum, mine won't snap or squeak or stretch out or do anything, it's just in its crumbly old age."

I gave the new gum; so, now, if that success seems not quite square, if you think I made an unfair use of my funds in obtaining promotion, do please remember that I was only an accessory after the act—not before it. I am the more anxious this should be impressed upon your mind because that penny was the only one I ever spent in paying for advancement professionally.

The second night of the "Lone House" was also the last night of Miss St. Clair's engagement, and when I carried her blue-brocade gown back to her, eagerly calling attention to its spotless condition, she stood with her hand high against the wall and her head resting heavily upon her outstretched arm. It was an attitude of such utter collapse, there was such a wanness on her white face that the commonplace words ceased to bubble over my lips, and, startled, I turned toward her husband. Charles Barras, gentleman as he was by birth and breeding, and one time officer in the American navy, was nevertheless in manner and appearance so odd that the sight or the sound of him provoked instant smiles, but that night his eyes were a tragedy, filled as they were with an anguish of helpless love.

For a sad moment he gazed at her silently—then he was counting drops from a bottle, holding smelling-salts to her pinched nostrils, removing her riding-boots, indeed, deftly filling the place not only of nurse, but dressing-maid, and as the wanness gradually faded from her weary face, bravely ignoring her own feelings, she made a little joke or two, then gave me hearty thanks for coming to her rescue, as she called it, praised my effort at acting, and asked me how I liked a crying part.

"Oh, I don't like it at all," I answered.