To this Ned readily agreed, with the result that the rehearsal of the part caused no end of merriment. Agnes was a jolly girl, and showed a decided preference for the White boys—those from Ferndale never appeared to interest the wealthy Agnes.
When the rehearsal was finally over Dorothy was very tired, for she felt a personal interest in the affair, as it was almost entirely in Mrs. White's hands. The others had all congregated about Mrs. Brownlie's tea-table, where that lady was dispensing the refreshing beverage, but Dorothy sank down for a few moments in a secluded corner of the parlor where the practice had been held.
Presently she thought she heard something stir near her, then she distinctly heard a sob. Brushing aside the heavy portière, Dorothy found little Mary Manning, her face hidden in her hands, and her whole slender form shaking convulsively.
"What is the matter, Mary dear?" asked Dorothy, her arms instantly about the little sufferer.
"Oh, I'm so unhappy!" sobbed Mary. "I wanted a part and nobody thought of me."
It then occurred to Dorothy that surely enough no one had thought of Mary, for from the time when the parts were given out until all the rehearsal was over Mary had never once either been seen or heard from. She was poor, not pretty, and not popular, but since she belonged to the auxiliary it was certainly too bad to have overlooked her.
"Why, I guess no one saw you," faltered Dorothy. "You surely would have been given a part had auntie seen you."
"Well, the girls looked—so queer at me," sobbed the miserable Mary. "I felt I had to keep back. But I do know how to play. My own mother was a real actress."
Dorothy looked down at the child in wonderment. Mary's mother an actress! No one seemed to know who the child's mother was, as she had always lived with the Mannings, an elderly couple.
"Well, we must give you a pretty part," promised Dorothy. "And I tell you, just come over to The Cedars to-morrow and Aunt Winnie—Mrs. White—will have it all made out for you. There, now, don't cry another tear. Come out to the tea-room with me and forget all your troubles. No, your eyes are not red. Come along," and she slipped her arm through that of little Mary, while she led the child out to the party of gay young folks, there to entertain her and bring to the queer little girl that sort of enjoyment which often follows acute grief—a reaction as uncontrollable as had been the bitterness which had caused the sorrow.