ng some small object into my hand. "Und if you laugh,
fraeulein, I tink I die, 'cause it is so mean und little."

Then stooping her head, she pressed a kiss on my bare shoulder and
rushed headlong down the stairs, leaving me standing there in the dark
with "it" in my hand. Poor Semantha! "it" lies here now, after all these
years; but where are you, Semantha? Are you still dragging heavily
through life, or have you reached that happy shore, where hearts are
hungry never more, but filled with love divine?

"It" is a little bit of white marble, highly polished and perfectly
carved to imitate a tiny Bible. A pretty toy it is to other eyes; but to
mine it is infinitely pathetic, and goes well with another toy in my
possession, a far older one, which cost a human life.

Well, from that Christmas-tide Semantha was never quite herself again.
For a time she was extravagantly gay, laughing at everything or nothing.
Then she became curiously absent-minded. She would stop sometimes in the
midst of what she might be doing, and stand stock-still, with fixed
eyes, and thoughts evidently far enough away from her immediate
surroundings. Sometimes she left unfinished the remark she might be
making. Once I saw a big, hulking-looking fellow walking away from the
theatre door with her. The night was bad, too, but I noticed that she
carried her own bundle, while he slouched along with his hands in his
pocket, and I felt hurt and offended for her.

And then one night Semantha was late, and we wondered greatly, since she
usually came very early, the theatre being the one bright spot in life
to her. We were quite dressed, and were saying how lucky it was there
was no dance to-night, or it would be spoiled, when she came in. Her
face was dreadful; even the straightforward one exclaimed in a shocked
tone, "You must be awful sick!"

But Semantha turned her hot, dry-looking eyes upon her and answered
slowly and dully, "I'm not sick."

"Not sick, with that white face and those poor curdling hands?"

"I'm not sick, I'm going avay."

Just then the act was called, and down the stairs we had to dash to take
our places. We wore pages' dresses, and as we went Semantha stood in the
doorway in her shabby street gown and followed us with wistful eyes--she
did so love a page's costume.

When we were "off" we hastened back to our dressing room. Semantha was
still there. She moved stiffly about, packing together her few
belongings; but her manner sile