s room, Barnes, with plays and manuscripts scattered around
him, was engaged in writing in his note and date book, wherein
autobiography, ledger and journal accounts, and such miscellaneous
matter mingled indiscriminately. "To-day she said to me: 'I am going
to the races with Mr. Saint-Prosper.' What did I say? 'Yes,' of
course. What can there be in common between Lear and Juliet?
Naturally, she sometimes turns from an old fellow like me--now, if she
were only a slip of a girl again--with her short frock--her disorder
of long ringlets--running and romping--

"A thousand details pass through my mind, reminiscences of her
girlhood, lightening a lonesome life like glimmerings of sunshine in a
secluded wood; memories of her mother and the old days when she played
in my New York theater--for Barnes, the stroller, was once a
metropolitan manager! Her fame had preceded her and every admirer of
histrionic art eagerly awaited her arrival.

"But the temple of art is a lottery. The town that had welcomed her so
wildly now went Elssler-mad. The gossamer floatings of this French
_danseuse_ possessed everyone. People courted trash and trumpery.
Greatness gave way to triviality. This pitiful condition preyed upon
her. The flame of genius never for a moment became less dim, but her
eyes grew larger, brighter, more melancholy. Sometimes she would fall
into a painful reverie and I knew too well the subject of her
thoughts. With tender solicitude she would regard her daughter,
thinking, thinking! She was her only hope, her only joy!

"'The town wants dancers, not tragedians, Mr. Barnes,' she said sadly
one day.

"'Nonsense,' I replied. 'The town wants a change of bill. We will put
on a new piece next week.'

"'It will be but substituting one tragedy for another,' she retorted.
'One misfortune for a different one! You should import a rival dancer.
You are going down; down hill! I will leave you; perhaps you will
discover your dancer, and your fortune is made!'

"'And you? What would you do?' I demanded. 'And your child?'

"At this her eyes filled and she could not answer. 'And now, Madam,' I
said firmly, 'I refuse once and for all to permit you to break your
contract. Pooh! The tide will change. Men and women are sometimes
fools; but they are not fools all the time. The dancer will have had
her day. She will twirl her toes to the empty seats and throw her
kisses into unresponsive space. Our patrons will gradually return;
they will