rom you even if it would benefit the whole
performance, as well as give me a personal pleasure."

"If the manager does not object," I said, "I am quite willing to give up
the leading part and play _Marie_ again."

He held my hands, he fairly stammered for a moment, then he said: "You
are an _artiste_ and a brave and generous girl. I shall remember this
action of yours, 'just Clara,' always."

The amazed manager, after some objection, having consented, I once more
put on the rusty black gown, took my small bundle, and asked of the gay
ladies from Paris my way to the convent, yonder--finding in the tears of
the audience and the excellence of the general performance, full reward
for playing second fiddle that evening.

In my early married days, when the great coffee-urn was still a menace to
my composure and dignity, at a little home-dinner, when Mr. William
Black, the famous writer of Scottish novels, honored me by his presence
on my right, Mr. Barrett on my left, moved, no one knows by what freak of
memory, lifted his glass, and, speaking low, said: "'Just Clara,' your
health!"

I laughed a little, and was nodding back, when Mr. Black, who saw
everything through those glasses of his, cried out: "Favoritism,
favoritism! why, bless my heart, I drank your health ten minutes ago, and
you never blushed a blush for me! And I am chief guest, and on the right
hand of the hostess--explanations are now in order!"

And Mr. Barrett said that he would explain on their way to the club,
whereupon Mr. Black wrinkled up his nose delightedly, and said he
"scented a story"--"and, oh," he cried, "it's the sweetest scent in the
world, the most fascinating trail to follow!"

But I was thankful that he did not hunt down his quarry then and there,
for he could be as mischievous as a squirrel and as persistent as any
_enfant terrible_, if he thought you were depriving him of a story.

Though tears creep into my eyes at the same moment, yet must I laugh
whenever I think of Mr. Barrett's last "call" upon me. We were
unknowingly stopping in the same hotel. On the way to the dining-room for
a bit of lunch, Mr. Harriott and Mr. Barrett met, exchanged greetings,
and when the latter found I was not going to luncheon, and was moreover
suffering from a most severe attack of neuralgia, he asked if he could
not call upon me for a few moments.

Mr. Harriott looked doubtful, and while he hesitated, Mr. Barrett hastily
added: "Of course I shall mere