friend
Albert, the waiter. Feeling that she must need sympathy and
encouragement, he had slipped away from his duties to go up to
her. He had reached the hall in time to see what she was about
and had darted bareheaded after her.

"Where you going?" he repeated, excitedly.

A crowd began to gather. "Oh, good-by," she cried. "I'm
getting out before I'm told to go--that's all. I made a
failure. Thank you, Albert." She put out her hand; she was
still moving and looking in the direction of the Bowery.

"Now you mustn't be foolish,", said he, holding on tightly to her
hand. "The boss says it's all right. Tomorrow you do better."

"I'd never dare try again."

"Tomorrow makes everything all right. You mustn't act like a
baby. The first time Katy tried, they yelled her off the
stage. Now she gets eleven a week. Come back right away with
me. The boss'd be mad if you won't. You ain't acting right,
Miss Lorna. I didn't think you was such a fool."

He had her attention now. Unmindful of the little crowd they
had gathered, they stood there discussing until to save Albert
from pneumonia she returned with him. He saw her started up
the stairs, then ventured to take his eye off her long enough
to put his head into the winter garden and send a waiter for
Lange. He stood guard until Lange came and was on his way to her.

The next evening, a Saturday, before a crowded house she sang
well, as well as she had ever sung in her life--sang well enough
to give her beauty of face and figure, her sweetness, her charm
the opportunity to win a success. She had to come back and
sing "Suwanee River." She had to come for a second encore;
and, flushed with her victory over her timidity, she sang
Tosti's sad cry of everlasting farewell with all the tenderness
there was in her. That song exactly fitted her passionate,
melancholy voice; its words harmonized with the deep sadness
that was her real self, that is the real self of every
sensitive soul this world has ever tried with its exquisite
torments for flesh and spirit. The tears that cannot be shed
were in her voice, in her face, as she stood there, with her
violet-gray eyes straining into vacancy. But the men and the
women shed tears; and when she moved, breaking the spell of
silence, they not only applauded, they cheered.

The news quickly spread that at Lange's there was a girl singer
worth hearing and still more worth looking at. And Lange had
his opportunity t