Then there was a pressing forward and an excitement.  The wounded soldier sprang from his couch; the nun came nearer, with a quick light in her eye; Leslie Goldthwaite, in her mob cap, quilted petticoat, big-flowered calico train, and high-heeled shoes; two or three supernumeraries, in Rebel gray, with bayonets, coming on in “Barbara Frietchie;” and Sir Charles, bouncing out from somewhere behind, to the great hazard of the frame of lights,—­huddled together upon the stage and consulted.  Dakie Thayne had dropped his cord and almost made a rush off at the first announcement; but he stood now, with a repressed eagerness that trembled through every fibre, and waited.

“Would he come?” “Isn’t it too late?” “Would it be any compliment?” “Won’t it be rude not to?” “All the patriotic pieces are just coming!” “Will the audience like to wait?” “Make a speech and tell ’em.  You, Brookhouse.”  “Oh, he must come!  Barbara Frietchie and the flag!  Just think!” “Isn’t it grand?” “Oh, I’m so frightened!” These were the hurried sentences that made the buzz behind the scenes; while in front “all the world wondered.”  Meanwhile, lamps trembled, the curtain vibrated, the very framework swayed.

“What is it?  Fire?” queried a nervous voice from near the footlights.

“This won’t do,” said Frank Scherman.  “Speak to them, Brookhouse.  Dakie Thayne, run over to Green’s, and say, the ladies’ compliments to General Ingleside and friends,—­and beg the honor of their presence at the concluding tableaux.”

Dakie was off with a glowing face.  Something like an odd, knowing smile twinkling out from the glow also, as he looked up at Scherman and took his orders.  All this while he had said nothing.

Leonard Brookhouse made his little speech, received with applause and a cheer.  Then they quieted down behind the scenes, and a rustle and buzz began in front,—­kept up for five minutes or so, in gentle fashion, till two gentlemen, in plain clothes, walked quietly in at the open door; at sight of whom, with instinctive certainty, the whole assembly rose.  Leslie Goldthwaite, peeping through the folds of the curtain, saw a tall, grand-looking man, in what may be called the youth of middle age, every inch a soldier, bowing as he was ushered forward to a seat vacated for him, and followed by one younger, who modestly ignored the notice intended for his chief.  Dakie Thayne was making his way, with eyes alight and excited, down a side passage to his post.

Then the two actors hurried once more into position; the stage was cleared by a whispered peremptory order; the bell rung once, the tent trembling with some one whisking further out of sight behind it,—­twice, and the curtain rose upon “Consolation.”