The characters which Ned was to have impersonated were divided among the other young men, it being necessary of course, to "double up" on three or four parts. Agnes Sinclair openly deplored her loss of a partner, but the others smiled incredulously when she said she preferred to play with Ned and "hated that big bear, Tom Scott."
Tom made this his excuse for being particularly "grizzly" with the pretty Agnes, and at the afternoon rehearsal he nearly went through the big gilt picture frame, in which the illustrations were posed, when he attempted to introduce a little impromptu "business" in "The Maiden all Forlorn."
Then when Roland attempted to do "There was a Man in Our Town," another of Ned's parts, his efforts were so absurd and so utterly unlike what the tableau was expected to be, that it was decided to make it "I Had a Little Husband, no Bigger than my Thumb." Roland certainly looked diminutive enough to fit into a pint pot, and also seemed qualified to do as he might be told with the drum.
Finally all was arranged, or rearranged, and the hour for the play was almost at hand.
No more delightful weather could have been wished for. It was clear and cold, while outside a big silvery moon threw a fairy-like illumination over the scene, and filtered in through the big windows of the drawing-room of the home of Mrs. Justin Brownlie.
Dorothy laughed her light, happy laugh. After all, perhaps everything would come out right—it was such a relief to feel that Ned would soon be better. The worry about him was the very worst part of her troubles. Then, suddenly, like the recurrence of an unpleasant dream, the thought of Tom's midnight visit flashed before her mind.
"Oh, I didn't tell you, Tavia," she said quickly. "I had the awfullest scare the other night. I just stole downstairs to see how Ned was, when all at once some one rapped at the vestibule door."
Tavia gazed upon Dorothy, pride and admiration beaming in her deep, hazel eyes.
"Oh, you needn't tell me, Doro," she interrupted. "I saw the midnight marauder, as the poets say. Lucky for him he stood directly under the light."
"Wasn't it—wasn't it kind of him to be—so—so anxious?" went on Dorothy, making fast her scarf picking up her pretty party-bag.