crumbling bricks, Barnes was buried, his
sealed tomb above ground bearing in its inscription the answer to the
duke's query: "Thy Best of Life is Sleep." After the manager's death
and Constance's retirement from the stage, it naturally followed that
the passengers of the chariot became separated. Mrs. Adams continued
to play old woman parts throughout the country, remaining springy and
buoyant to the last. Susan transferred herself and her talents to
another stock company performing in New Orleans, while Kate procured
an engagement with a traveling organization. Adonis followed in her
train. It had become like second nature to quarrel with Kate, and at
the mere prospect of separation, he forthwith was driven to ask her
for her hand, and was accepted--on probation, thus departing in
leading strings. Hawkes, melancholy as of old, drifted into a comic
part in a "variety show," acquiring new laurels as a dry comedian of
the old school. But he continued to live alone in the world,
mournfully sufficient unto himself.

Constance remained in New Orleans. There the old manager had found his
final resting place and she had no definite desire to go elsewhere.
Adrift in the darkness of the present, the young girl was too
perplexed to plan for the future. So she remained in the house Barnes
had rented shortly before his death. An elderly gentlewoman of fallen
fortunes, to whom this semi-rural establishment belonged, Constance
retained as a companion, passing her time quietly, soberly, almost in
solitude. This mansion, last remnant of its owner's earthly estate,
was roomy and spacious, nestling among the oranges and inviting
seclusion with its pretentious wall surrounding the grounds.

The old-fashioned gentlewoman, poor and proud, was a fitting figure in
that ancient house, where in former days gay parties had assembled.
But now the principal callers at the old house were the little fat
priest, with a rosy smile, who looked after the aged lady's soul, of
which she was most solicitous in these later days, and the Count de
Propriac, who came ostensibly to see the elderly woman and chat about
genealogy and extraction, but was obviously not unmindful of the
presence of the young girl nor averse to seeking to mitigate her
sorrow. Culver, the lawyer, too, came occasionally, to talk about her
affairs, but often her mind turned impatiently from figures and
markets to the subtle rhythm of Shakespeare. She regretted having left
the stage, f