"I wanted their love, not their adulation. There had been nights back in the East, when I had felt my audience, and turned loose The Thing with utmost daring, knowing that enough of the throng could follow me. But this night I played slowly, played down, so that all could get it. This was not a concession to the public, but a reconciliation. And at the last, I moved and spoke pityingly, lest I hurt them; played to the working face of Calhoun Knox with all its limitations—as you would tell a story to a child, and hasten the happy ending to steady the quivering lip.... And then it came to me slowly, after the last curtain had fallen, that Danube was calling for its own, and I stepped out from behind.
"'Once in the days of tumult and misunderstanding,' I told them, 'I was angry because you did not love me. Now I know that I was not lovable. And now I feel your goodness and your forgiveness. I pray you not to thank me any more, lest I break down under too much joy....' Then I went down among them. A woman kissed me, but the moment was so big and my eyes so clouded that I did not remember the face.... Presently the real consciousness came. Danube had dropped back to the doors. My hand was in the hand of Calhoun Knox.
"Far out the Lone Ridge pike, we walked, to the foot of the Knobs. I was breathing the smell of my old mountains. You can rely, that I had kept my voice bright. 'I have come back to you, Calhoun,' I said.
"'I shouldn't be here,' he stammered in real panic. 'You didn't write, and I married——'
"I could have hugged him in a way that would not have disturbed his wife, but I said reproachfully, 'And you let me come 'way out here alone with you, wicked Married Man?...' I started back for town, and then thought better of it—waited for him to come up, and took his hand.
"'Calhoun,' I said, 'I found you a solid friend when I needed one pitifully. Selma Cross never forgets. You have always been my Kentucky Gentleman. God bless your big bright heart. I wish you kingly happiness!'
"And then I did rush back. We separated at the edge of the town. I wanted to run and cry aloud. The joy was so new and so vast that I could scarcely hold it. Miles away, I heard the night-train whistle. My baggage was at the hotel, but I didn't care for that, and reached the depot-platform in time. The Company was there, but they had reserved a Pullman. I went into the day-coach, because I wanted to be alone—sat rigidly in the thin-backed seat. There were snoring, sprawling folks on every hand.... After a long time, some one stirred in his seat and muttered, 'High Bridge.' The brakeman came through at age-long intervals, calling stations that had once seemed to me the far country. Then across the aisle, a babe awoke and wailed. The mother had others—a sweet sort of woman sick with weariness. I took the little one, and it liked the fresh arms and fell asleep. It fitted right in—the soft helpless warm little thing—and felt good to me. Dawn dimmed the old meadows before I gave it up to be fed—and begged it back again.
"And then Cincinnati from the river—brown river below and brown smoke-clouds above. It seemed as if I had been gone ages, instead of only since yesterday. Unhampered by baggage, I sped out of the day-coach, far ahead of the Company in the Pullman, but the carriage to the hotel was insufferably slow; the elevator dragged.... It was only eight in the morning, but I knew his ways—how little he slept.... His door was partly open, and I heard the crinkle of his paper, as he answered my tap.
"'Aren't you pretty near ready for breakfast, Stephen?' I asked.... He stood in the doorway—his head just to my breast. His face was hallowed, but his body seemed to weaken. I crossed the threshold to help him, and we—we're to be married before the new season opens."
Paula loved the story.