performance.
Amazingly they congratulated him, struggling with reminiscent laughter
as they did so.

"And you never told us you was one of them funny comedians," chided Mrs.
Patterson. "We thought you was just a beginner, and here you got the
biggest part in the picture! Say, the way you acted when you'd pick
yourself up after them spurs threw you--I'll wake up in the night
laughing at that."

"And the way he kept his face so straight when them other funny ones was
cutting their capers all around him," observed Mr. Patterson.

"Yes! wasn't it wonderful, Jed, the way he never let on, keeping his
face as serious as if he'd been in a serious play?"

"I like to fell off my seat," added Mr. Patterson.

"I'll tell you something, Mr. Armytage," began Mrs. Patterson with a
suddenly serious manner of her own, "I never been one to flatter folks
to their faces unless I felt it from the bottom of my heart--I never
been that kind; when I tell a person such-and-such about themselves they
can take it for the truth's own truth; so you can believe me now--I saw
lots of times in that play to-night when you was even funnier than the
cross-eyed man."

The young actor was regarding her strangely; seemingly he wished to
acknowledge this compliment but could find no suitable words. "Yes, you
can blush and hem and haw," went on his critic, "but any one knows me
I'll tell you I mean it when I talk that way--yes, sir, funnier than the
cross-eyed man himself. My, I guess the neighbours'll be talking
soon's they find out we got someone as important as you be in our
spare-room--and, Mr. Armytage, I want you to give me a signed photograph
of yourself, if you'll be so good."

He escaped at last, dizzy from the maelstrom of conflicting emotions
that had caught and whirled him. It had been impossible not to appear,
and somehow difficult not to feel, gratified under this heartfelt
praise. He had been bound to appear pleased but incredulous, even when
she pronounced him superior, at times, to the cross-eyed man--though the
word she used was "funnier."

Betrayed by his friends, stricken, disconsolate, in a panic of despair,
he had yet seemed glad to hear that he had been "funny." He flew to the
sanctity of his room. Not again could he bear to be told that the acting
which had been his soul's high vision was a thing for merriment.

He paced his room a long time, a restless, defenceless victim to
recurrent visions of his shame. Implacably they r