"Please take it!" she urged. "I—I am well off, even if I live here," she said hesitatingly. "I shall feel better if you take it."
"And I shall feel better if you give it to the Red Cross," said Joe. "That needs it, to help the stricken, more than I do. I make pretty good money myself," he added. "And I didn't do this for a reward."
"But I promised it!"
"Well, then consider that I took it, and you, in my name, may pass it on to the Red Cross," said Joe. "And now, may I ask your name?"
The woman told him. It was Miss Susan Crawford. The name meant nothing to Joe, though he afterward learned she was a member of an old, wealthy and aristocratic family. She had had an unfortunate love affair, and, her family having all died, she made for herself a little apartment in one of her many buildings and lived there with her pets—a recluse in the midst of a big city. It was a pathetic story.
"I wish you would let me reward you in some way," said Miss Crawford wistfully, as Joe left. "You did so much, and you get nothing out of it."
"Oh, yes I do," returned the young acrobat. "I'll get a lot of advertising out of this, and it will be the best thing in the world for the circus."
And Joe was right. The next day the papers all carried big stories of his wire-walking feat to save the cat that had ventured out over the street and was afraid to go back. Bigger crowds than ever came to the circus.
As she had promised, Miss Crawford was at the evening performance, and Joe introduced a little novelty in one of his "magic stunts," producing a cat instead of a rabbit from a man's pocket. As he held it up he looked over and smiled at the old lady in black, for he had given her a seat near his stage. She smiled back.
Joe never saw her again. She was found dead a few months later in her lonely rooms, with her cats and dogs around her. But Joe always remembered her.