e covered my troubled, veiled
face with frantic kisses. I passed her to mother and crept painfully down
the steps. I glanced back--mother waved her hand and innocently called:
"Good luck! God bless you!"

The astonishing conjunction of superstition and orthodox faith touched my
sense of the ridiculous. I laughed aloud, Bertie barked excitedly, I
faced about and went forward almost gayly to meet--what? As I reached
Broadway, I remember quite distinctly that I said aloud, to myself:
"Well, God's good to the Irish, and at all events I was born on St.
Patrick's day--so Garryowen forever!"

The pendulum was swinging to the other extreme, I was in high spirits;
nor need you be surprised, for such is the acting temperament.

I had not on that first night even the comfort of a dressing-room to
myself, but shared one of the tiniest closets with Mrs. Roberta Norwood,
in whose chic blonde person I failed utterly to see a future friend. The
terrible heat, the crowding, the strange companion, all brought back the
memory of that far-away first night of all in Cleveland; but now there
was no Mrs. Bradshaw to go to for advice or commendation. The sense of
utter loneliness came upon me suddenly, and I bent my head low over the
buckling of my shoe that my rising tears might not be noticed.

We were directly beneath the auditorium parquet, and every seat flung
down by the ushers seemed to strike a blow upon our heads, while applause
shook dust into our eyes and hair. Forced occupation is the best cure for
nervousness, and in the hurried making-up and dressing I for the time
forgot my fright. Two or three persons had come to the door to speak to
Mrs. Norwood, and it seemed to me they were all made up unusually pale. I
looked at myself in the glass, I hesitated, at last I turned and asked if
I wore too much color--if I was too red, and the answer I received was:
"That's a matter of taste."

Now it was not a matter of taste, but a matter of business. She was
familiar with the size and the lighting of the theatre, and I was not,
yet either from extreme self-occupation or utter indifference she allowed
me to go upon that tiny stage painted like an Indian about to take the
war-path. Truly I was climbing up a thorny stem to reach the flower of
success.

The overture was at its closing bars, all were rushing to the stairs for
the first act. I stopped behind the dressing-room door and bent my head
for one dumbly pleading moment, then mutteri