oking up, she said again: "Drink your coffee--I'll
give you the paper presently."

I sipped a little and watched. She was not reading a line. I put down the
cup. "Mother," said I, "is there anything in that paper that will
interest me?"

She looked up hastily: "Drink your coffee, and I'll----"

"Is there?" I broke in.

Tears rose in her eyes. "Y-y-yes," she stammered, "there is something
here that will interest--rather that will grieve you, but if you would
please take your coffee!"

I caught up the cup and emptied it at a draught, then held out my hand.
Mother gave me the paper and left the room; as her first sob reached my
ear, I read: "Sudden death of the actor, Joseph Barrett." I sat staring
stupidly, and before I saw another word there came to my ears the
shivering of leaves, and a grave voice, saying: "It is a message from the
dying or--the dead--believe that."

"What," I asked, dully, "what is a message?" and then the blood chilled
at my heart as I recalled "the lament," Joe had said: "It is a message
from the dying--or the dead."

After rehearsal, Mr. Daly wished to see me in his bit of a
staircase-office in front of the house. He desired help in deciding about
several scenes he meant to have built from old engravings. Suddenly he
came to a stand-still. "What's the matter with you?" he cried; "where are
your splendid spirits? you have been absent and heavy all morning--what's
the matter?"

"Oh, nothing much," I began, when he angrily interrupted: "For heaven's
sake, spare me that senseless answer. If you won't tell me, say so.
Refuse me your confidence, if you choose, but don't treat me as though I
were a fool by saying _nothing_, when you look as if you'd seen a ghost!"

"Oh, don't!" I cried, and astonished my irate manager by bursting into
tears. He instantly became gentle, and forcing a thimbleful of
_Chartreuse_ (which I loath) upon me, he once more asked what was the
matter.

And then I told him of the dying emigrant--of Joe's feeling for me--of
the singing of "the lament," and at Joe's words: "It's a message from the
dying, or the dead."

Mr. Daly's fingers trembled like aspen leaves, his eyes dilated to
perfect blackness, and almost he whispered the words: "Well,
child--well?"

I told of the song, begun in sleep, continued in wakefulness to its
wailing end, and then lost--utterly lost! And leaning his pale face
eagerly toward me, Mr. Daly exclaimed: "He proved his words, good God!
don't y