"All right," said David. "I'll obey you Mistress Grace, although I wish you would confide in me."
But Grace was obdurate. She would tell no one.
The last act disclosed an attic at the top of an old tenement, with dormer windows looking out on a wintry scene. Anne appeared, more ragged than ever, carrying a little basket of matches. It was evident that she was a match girl by trade, and that this was her wretched domicile. As she crept down the center of the stage, ill and wretched, for she was supposed to be about to die—David saw his opportunity. From behind the curtain of the box he tossed the chrysanthemum, which fell right at her feet.
"If she only sees it," he thought.
But apparently she didn't. Going wearily to an old cupboard, she took out a crust of bread. Then she drew the ragged curtains at the windows and lit a candle. Simultaneously the entire attic was illuminated, for stage candles have remarkable powers of diffusing light.
"Why doesn't she pick up the flower?" exclaimed Grace. "If she doesn't the scheme won't work at all."
"I believe she's going to die," whispered Nora in a broken voice.
Just then the Irish comedian appeared, puffing and blowing from the long climb he had had to the top of the house. He had come to bring help to the dying girl, but he was funny in spite of the dreary tragedy, and Nora changed her tears to laughter and began to giggle violently, burying her face in her handkerchief in her effort to control her mirth. Her laughter was always contagious, and presently her two friends were giggling in chorus.
"Do hush, Nora O'Malley!" whispered Jessica nervously. "You know that if you once get us started we'll never stop."
A countryman, sitting back of Nora, touched her on the shoulder.