commands? 'Ours not to reason why!' The poem is a
monody on the tragedy at the theater."

"At the St. Charles?" said Phazma, musingly. "As I passed, it was
closed. It seemed early for the performance to be over. Yet the
theater was dark; all the lights had gone out."

"More than the lights went out," answered Straws, gravely; "a life
went out!"

"I don't exactly--Oh, you refer to Miss Carew's farewell?"

"No; to Barnes'!"

"Barnes'!" exclaimed his surprised listener.

"Yes; he is dead; gone out like the snuff of a candle! Died in
harness, before the footlights!"

"During the performance!" cried the wondering Phazma. "Why, only this
afternoon I met him, apparently hale and hearty, and now--you tell me
he has paid the debt of nature?"

"As we must all pay it," returned Straws. "He acted as if he were
dazed while the play was in progress and I could not but notice it,
standing in the wings. The prompter spoke of it to me. 'I don't know
what is the matter with Mr. Barnes,' he said, 'I have had to keep
throwing him his lines.' Even Miss Carew rallied him gently between
acts on his subdued manner.

"'This is our last performance together,' he said absently. She gave
him a reproachful look and he added, quickly: 'Do I appear gloomy, my
dear? I never felt happier.'

"At the end of the second act he seemed to arouse himself, when she,
as Isabella, said: 'I'll fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest.'
He gazed at her long and earnestly, his look caressing her wherever
she moved. Beginning the prison scene with spirit, he had proceeded
to,

"'Reason thus with life;
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would keep--'

When suddenly he threw up his arms and fell upon the stage, his face
toward the audience. With a cry I shall never forget, Miss Carew
rushed to him and took his head in her arms, gazing at him wildly, and
calling to him piteously. The curtain went down, but nothing could be
done, and life quickly ebbed. Once, only, his lips moved: 'Your
mother--there!--where the play never ends!' and it was over."

"It is like a romance," said Phazma, finally, at the conclusion of
this narration.

"Say, rather, reality! The masque is over! In that final sleep Jack
Pudding lies with Roscius; the tragedian does not disdain the mummer,
and beautiful Columbine, all silver spangles and lace, is company for
the clown. 'Tis the only true republic, Ph