or in the play; go
ahead, and make as much of it as you can."

But right there I came up against an obstacle. I was not good at even an
eccentric make-up. I did not know how to proceed to represent such a
scar, as I had in my mind.

"Try," said Mr. Daly. I tried, and with tear-reddened eyes announced my
failure, but I said: "I shall ask Mr. Lemoyne to help me--he is the
cleverest and most artistic maker-up of faces I ever saw."

"Yes," said Mr. Daly, "get him to try it after rehearsal; you have no
time to lose now!"

Only too well I knew that; so at once I approached Mr. Lemoyne, and made
my wants known. I had not the slightest hesitation in doing so, because,
in spite of his sinful delight in playing jokes on me, he was the
kindest, most warm-hearted of comrades; and true to that character he at
once placed his services at my disposal, though he shook his head very
doubtfully over the undertaking.

"You know I never saw a scar of such a nature in my life," he said, as he
lighted up his dressing-room.

"Oh," I said, "you, who can change your nose or your mouth or your eyes
at will, can make an ugly scar, easily enough," and off went hat and
veil, and Mr. Lemoyne, using my countenance for his canvas, began work.

He grew more and more glum as he wiped off and repainted. One scar was
too small--oh, much too small. Then the shattered jaw-bone was described.
Again he tried. "Clara," he said, "I can't do it, because I don't know
what I am aiming at!"

"Oh, go on!" I pleaded, "make a hideous scar, then I'll learn how from
you, and do it myself."

He was patience and kindness personified, but when at last he said he
could do no more, I looked in the glass, and--well, we both laughed
aloud, in spite of our chagrin. He said: "It looks as though some
street-boy had given you a swat in the eye with a chunk of mud."

I mournfully washed it off and begged him to try just once
more--to-morrow; and he promised with a doleful air.

I had tears in my eyes as I left the theatre, I was so horribly cast
down, for if Mr. Lemoyne could not make up that scar no one could. But he
used too much black--that was a grave mistake, and--oh, dear! _now_ what?
Men were peeling up the stone walk. I could not go home by the Sixth
Avenue car as usual, without a lot of bother and muddy shoes. I was just
tired enough from rehearsal and disappointed enough to be irritated by
the tiniest _contretemps_, and I almost whimpered, as I turned the oth