t.

The last act came, and--and--well, as I said, it was the last act. White
and rigid and lily-strewn, they bore me on the stage,--Louis James at
the shoulders and George Clarke at the feet. Their heads were bent over
me. James was nearest to the storm centre. Suddenly he gasped, then as
we reached the centre of the stage Clarke gave vent to "phew!" They
gently laid me on the sofa, but through the sobs of the audience and of
the characters I heard from James the unfinished, half-doubting
sentence, "Well, I believe in my soul it's--" But the mother (Miss
Morant) approached me then, took my hand, touched my brow, called for
help, for a physician; then with the wild cry, "She is dead! she is
dead!" flung herself down beside the sofa with her head upon my
goose-grease breast. Scarcely had she touched me, however, when with a
gasping snort of disgust she sprang back, exclaiming violently, "It's
you, you wretch! it's _you_!" and then under cover of other people's
speeches, I being dead and helpless, Clarke stood at my head and James
at my feet and reviled me, calling me divers unseemly names and mocking
at me, while references were made every now and then to chloride of lime
and such like disinfectants.

They would probably have made life a burden for me ever after, had I not
after the performance lifted tearful eyes to them and said, "I am so
sorry for your discomfort, but you can go out and get fresh air; but,
boys, just think of me, I can't get away from myself and my goose-grease
smell a single moment, and it's perfectly awful!"

"You bet it is!" they all answered, as with one voice, and they were
merciful to me, which did not prevent them from sending the prompter
(who did not know of the discovery) with a lantern to search back of the
scenes for the cause of the offensive odour. Perhaps I may add that
goose grease does not figure in my list of "household remedies."

But the next week I was able, in a measure at least, to heal their
wounded feelings. Actresses used to receive a good many little gifts
from admirers in the audience. They generally took the form of flowers
or candy, but sometimes there came instead a book, a piece of music, or
an ornament for the dressing-table; but Alixe's altar could boast an
entirely new votive offering. I received a letter and a box. The letter
was an outburst of admiration for Alixe, the "lily maid the tender, the
poetical," etc. The writer then went on to tell me how she had yearn