His _Shylock_ was much admired, I believe, but _Narcisse_ was a most
artistic piece of work. His appearance was superb; his philosophical
flippancy anent his poverty, his biting contempt of the powerful
_Pompadour_; his passion and madness on discovering his lost wife in the
person of the dying favorite, and his own death, were really great.

And just one little month after the departure of the impetuous German,
who should be announced but Mr. Edwin Booth. I felt my eyes growing
wider as I read in the cast, "_Queen Gertrude--Miss Morris_." Uncle
Dick, behind me, said: "Would you like me to d----n poor Brad's bones
for you, Clara? It's hard lines on you, and that's a fact!"

"Oh!" I thought, "why won't her blessed old bones mend themselves! she is
not lazy, but they are! oh, dear! oh, dear!" and miserable tears slid
down my cheeks all the way home, and moistened saltily my supper of
crackers after I got there.

I had succeeded before, oh, yes; but I could not help recalling just how
hot the ploughshares were over which I had walked to reach that success.
Then, too, all girls have their gods--some have many of them. Some girls
change them often. My gods were few. Sometimes I cast one down, but I
never changed them, and on the highest, whitest pedestal of all, grave
and gentle, stood the god of my professional idolatry--Edwin Booth. I
wiped off cracker-crumbs with one hand and tears with the other.

It was so humiliating to be forced upon anyone, as I should be forced
upon Mr. Booth, since there was still no one but my "apple-cheeked" self
to go on for the _Queen_; and though I dreaded indignant complaint or
disparaging remarks from him, I was honestly more unhappy over the
annoyance this blemish on the cast would cause him. Well, it could not be
helped, I should have to bear a second cruel mortification, that was all.
I put my four remaining crackers back in their box, brushed up the
crumbs, wiped my eyes, repeated my childish little old-time "Now I lay
me," and went to sleep; only to dream of Mr. Booth holding out a hideous
mask, and pressing me to have the decency to put it on before going on
the stage for _Gertrude_.

When the dreaded Monday came, lo! a blizzard came with it. The trains
were all late, or stalled entirely. We rehearsed, but there was no Mr.
Booth present. He was held in a drift somewhere on the line, and at
night, therefore, we all went early to the theatre, so that if he came we
would have time to