en in
my life before--great baskets of hot-house beauties, some of them costing
more than I earned in a week. Then one night came a bolder note, with a
big gold locket. A signature made it possible for me to return that gift
next morning.

All that sort of thing was new to me, and, naturally, pleasing--yes,
because earned approbation pleases one, even though it be not quite
correctly expressed. It soon became whispered about that I sent back all
gifts of jewelry, and lo! one matinee, with a splendid basket of white
camelias, fringed about with poinsettia leaves, there came a box of
French candied fruit. My! what a sensation it created in the
dressing-room. I remember some of the ladies (we dressed in one great
long room there) took bits of peach and of green figs to show their
friends, while I devoted myself to the cherries and apricots. That seemed
to start a fashion, for candies, in dainty boxes, came to me as often as
flowers afterward, and, to my great pride and pleasure, were often from
women, and my Saturday five cents' allowance was turned over to mother
for the banqueting fund--that meant a bit of cheese for supper.

At the time of the season's opening there was a man in Cincinnati who was
there sorely against his will, a wealthy native of the city, a lawyer who
would not practise, a traveler in distant lands, he had lived mainly for
his own pleasure and had grown as weary of that occupation as he could
possibly have grown had he practised the law. Tired of everything else,
he still kept his liking for the theatre. Living in New York in the
winter, at Cape May in the summer, he only came to his old home when
someone was irritating enough to die and need burying in state, or when
some lawsuit required his attention, as in this instance. So, being
there, and not knowing what else to do, he had gone dully and moodily to
the theatre, saying to his cousin companion: "I'll take a look at
Macaulay's new leading lady, and then I'll sleep through the rest of the
evening comfortably, for no one can talk to me here as they do at the
hotel"--and the country _Cicely_ had appeared, and, to use Mr.
Worthington's own words: he had sat up straight as a ramrod and as
wide-awake as a teething baby for the rest of the evening.

Between acts he had made inquiries as to the history of the new actress,
only to find that, like most happy women, she had none. She came from
Cleveland, she lived three doors away with her mother--that wa