play sentiment every week of my
life," I protested.

"Oh, you know what I mean," he said, "you can _speak_ and _repeat_ the
lines, but you couldn't give a line of sentiment naturally to save your
life--your forte is comedy, pure and simple."

It all ended in his offer to engage me, but without a stated line of
business. I must trust to his honor not to degrade me by casting me for
parts unworthy me. He would give me $35 a week (knowing there were two to
live on it), _if I made a favorable impression he would double that
salary_.

A poor offer--a risky undertaking. I had no one to consult with. I had in
my pocket the signed contract for $100 in gold and two benefits. I must
decide now, at once. Mr. Daly was filling up a blank contract.
Thirty-five dollars against $100! "_But if you make a favorable
impression_ you'll get $70," I thought. And why should I not make a
favorable impression? Yet, if I fail now in New York, I can go West or
South, not much harmed. If I wait till I am older, and fail, it will ruin
my life.

I slipped my hand in my pocket and gave a little farewell tap to the
contract for $100. I took the pen; I looked hard at him. "There's a heap
of trusting being asked for in this contract," I remarked. "You won't
forget your promise about doubling the salary?"

"I won't forget anything," he answered.

I looked at the pen, it was a stub, the first I ever saw; then I said:
"That's what makes your writing look so villainous. I can't sign with
that thing--I'd be ashamed to own my signature in court, when we come to
the fight we're very likely to have before we are through with each
other."

He groaned at my levity, but got another pen. I wrote Clara Morris twice,
shook hands, and went out and back to my home--a Western actress with an
engagement in a New York theatre for the coming season.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIRST

John Cockerill and our Eccentric Engagement--I Play a Summer Season at
Halifax--Then to New York, and to House-Keeping at Last.

Mr. Worthington passed out of my life after he had done me the service he
set out to do. It had been an odd notion to step down from his carriage,
as it were, and point out to a girl, struggling along a rough and dusty
path, a short cut to the fair broad highway of prosperity; but I thank
him heartily, for without his urging voice, his steadily pointing hand, I
should have continued plodding along in the dust--heaven knows how long.

One of the few peop