sheila was late at the rehearsal the next morning, and so dejected that she hardly felt regret at hearing vickery tell her how many of her favorite scenes had to be

omitted because they were not essential. vickery held command of the company with the plucky misery of a napoleon retreating from his moscow.

when this rehearsal was over the director told sheila that she need not stay to rehearse the next week’s bill, since reben had asked him to release her from further

work. he had telegraphed to new york for a woman who had played the same part with great success, and received answer that she would be able to step in without

inconvenience. sheila was dolefully relieved. she felt that she could never have learned another r?le. she felt almost grateful to reben. “my brain has stopped,” she

told pennock; “just stopped.”

the tuesday afternoon matinée was always the worst of the week. the heat was like a persecution. the actors played havoc with cues and lines, and the suffocated

audience was too indifferent to know or care.

after the performance vickery was so lost to hope that he grew sardonic. he said with a tormented smile:

“it’s a pity reben didn’t stay over. if he had seen how badly this performance went he would have sworn that the play would run a year on his dear damned broadway.

i’m going to telegraph him so.”

tuesday night the house was again poor, though better than at the matinée. the company settled down into harness like draught-horses beginning a long pull. the

laughter was feeble and not focused. it was indeed so scattered that the voice of one man was audible above the rest.

out of the silences or the low murmurs of laughter resounded the gigantic roars of this single voice. people in the audience twisted about to see who it was. the

people on the stage were confused at first, and later amused. they also made more or less concealed efforts to place the fellow.

by and by the audience began to catch the contagion of his mirth. it laughed first at his laughter, and then at the play. during the third act the piece was going so

well that it was impossible to pick out any individual noise.

after the last curtain a number of townspeople went back on the stage to tell sheila how much they liked the play, and especially her work. they had read the glowing

criticisms in the morning and evening papers. they had not heard what reben had said of what broadway would say. they would not have cared. broadway was suspect in

clinton.

these bouquets had the savor of artificial flowers to sheila, but she enacted the r?le of gratitude to the best of her ability. back of the knot surrounding her she

saw vickery standing with a towering big fellow evidently waiting to be presented. then she saw eldon shaking hands with the stranger.

bret winfield was suffering from stage-fright. he had met vickery in new york and had promised to run down to see his play, and incidentally to square himself with the

girl he had frightened. in the generally disheveled state of brains that characterizes a playwright during rehearsal, vickery had neglected to tell winfield that the

company contained also the man that winfield had vowed to square himself with.

when, years before at leroy, eldon, as the taxicab-driver, had floated winfield over the footlights, he had worn a red wig and disguising make-up. when winfield saw

him on the stage as a handsome youth perfectly groomed, there was no resemblance. eldon’s name was on the program, but winfield was one of those who pay little heed

to programs, prefaces, and title-pages. he was one of those who never know the names of the authors, actors, composers, printers, and architects whose work pleases

them. they “know what they like,” but they never know who made it.

as he waited to reach sheila, winfield noted eldon standing in a little knot of admirers of his own. he said to vickery, with that elegance of diction which has always

distinguished collegians:

“that lad who played your hero is a great little actor, ’gene. he’s right there all the time. i’d like to slip it to him.”

vickery absently led him to eldon and introduced the two, swallowing both names. the two powerful hands met in a warm clutch that threatened to become a test of grip.

winfield poured out his homage:

“you’re certainly one actor, mr.—er—er— you’ve got a sad, solemn way of pulling your laughs that made me make a fool of myself.”

“you’re very kind to think so,” said eldon, overjoyed to get such praise from a man of such weight. and he crushed winfield’s fingers with a power that enhanced

the layman’s respect still further. winfield crushed back with all his might as he repeated:

“yes, sir. you’re sure some comedian, mr.—mr.—”

“eldon,” said eldon.

winfield’s grip relaxed so unexpectedly that eldon almost cracked a bone or two before he could check his muscles. winfield turned white and red in streaks and said:

“eldon? your name’s eldon?”

eldon nodded.

“are you the eldon that knocked a fellow about my size about ten yards for a touch-down across the footlights once?”

eldon blushed to find his prowess fame, and said: “yes. once.”

“well, i’m the fellow,” said winfield, trying to call his ancient grudge to the banquet. “i’ve been looking for you ever since. i promised myself the pleasure of

beating you up.”

eldon laughed: “well, here i am. i’ve been ashamed of it for a long time. i took an unfair advantage of you.”

“advantage nothing,” said winfield. “i ought to have been on my guard.”

“well,” eldon suggested. “suppose i stand down here on the apron of the stage and let you have a whack at me. see if you can put me into the orchestra chairs

farther than i put you.”

winfield sighed. “hell! i can’t hit you now. i’ve shaken hands with you, unbeknownst. i guess it’s all off. i couldn’t slug a man that made me laugh so hard.

shake!”

he put out his hand and the enemies gripped a truce. winfield was laughing, but there was a bitterness in his laugh. he had been struck in the face and he could not

requite the debt.

then vickery called him to where sheila, having rid herself of her admirers, was making ready to leave the stage.

“miss kemble, i want to present my old friend, mr. bret winfield. he’s been dying to meet you again for a long while.”

“again?” thought sheila, but she said, as if to her oldest friend: “oh, i’m delighted! i haven’t seen you since—since— chicago, wasn’t it?”

vickery laughed and explained: “guess again! you’ve met before, but you were never introduced.”

slowly sheila understood. she stared up at winfield and cried, “this isn’t the man who—”

“i’m the little fellow,” said winfield, enfolding her hand in a clasp like a boxing-glove. “i scared you pretty badly, i’m afraid. but vickery tells me he told

you my intentions were honorable. i’ve come to apologize.”

“oh, please don’t! i’m the one that ought to. i made an awful idiot of myself; but, you see, i was afraid you were going to—to—well, kidnap me.”

“i wish i could now!”

“kidnap me?” sheila gasped with a startled frown-smile, drawing her brows down and her lips up.

he lowered his high head and his low voice to murmur, with an impudence that did not offend her, “you’re too darned nice to waste your gifts on the public.”

“waste them!—on the public?” sheila mocked. “and what ought i to do with them, then?”

he spoke very earnestly. “invest them in a nice quiet home. you oughtn’t to be slaving away like this to amuse a good-for-nothing mob. you let some big husky fellow

do the work and build you a pretty home. then you just stay home and—and—bloom for him—like a rose on a porch. i tell you if i had you i’d lock you up where the

crowds couldn’t see you.”

sheila put back her head and laughed at the utter ridiculousness of such insolence. then her laugh stopped short. the word “home” got her by the throat. and the

words “bloom just for him” brought sudden dew to her eyes.

she had hurt winfield by her laughter. under the raillery of it he had muttered a curt “good night” without heeding her sudden softness.

he had rejoined eldon and vickery. of the three tall men he was the least gifted, the least spiritual. but he was the only one of the three, the only one of all her

admirers, who had not urged her forward on this weary climb up the sun-beaten hill. he was the only one who had suggested twilight and peace and home.

at any other time his counsel would have wakened her fiery dissent. now in her fatigue and her loneliness it soothed her like the occasional uncanny wisdom of a fool.