Tony Holiday behind the scene on that momentous evening, on being informed that Carol Clay—­the famous Carol Clay herself—­the real Rose—­was out there in a box, was paralyzed with fear, for the first time in her life, victim of genuine stage fright.  She was cold.  She was hot.  She was one tremendous shake and shiver.  She was a very lump of stone.  The orchestra was already playing.  In a moment her call would come and she was going to fail, fail miserably.  And with Carol Clay there to see.

Some flowers and a card were brought in.  The flowers were from Alan of course, great crimson roses.  It was dear of him to send them.  Later she would appreciate it.  But just now not even Alan mattered.  She glanced at the card which had come separately, was not with the flowers.  It was Dick’s.  Hastily she read the pencil-written scrawl.  “Am covering the Rose.  Will be close up.  See you after the show.  Best o’ luck and love.”

Tony could almost have cried for joy over the message.  Somehow the knowledge of Dick’s nearness gave her back her self-possession.  She had refused to let Alan come.  His presence in the audience always distracted her, made her nervous.  But Dick was different.  It was almost like having Uncle Phil himself there.  She wouldn’t fail now.  She couldn’t.  It was for the honor of the Hill.

A moment later, still clutching Dick’s comforting card, she ran in on the stage, swinging her sun-bonnet from its green ribbons with hoydenish grace, chanting a gay little lilt of an Irish melody.  Her fear had gone even as the dew might have disappeared at the kiss of the sun upon the Killarney greensward.

Almost at once she discovered Dick and sang a part of her song straight down at him.  A little later she dared to let her eyes stray to the box where Carol Clay sat.  The actress smiled and Tony smiled back and then forgot she was Tony, was henceforth only Rose of Killarney.

It was a winsome, old-timey sort of play, with an almost Barriesque charm and whimsicality to it.  The witching little Rose laughed and danced and sang and flirted and wept and loved her way through it and in the end threw herself in the right lover’s arms, presumably there to dwell happy forever after.

After the last curtain went down and she had smiled and bowed and kissed her hand to the kindly audience over and over Tony fled to the dressing room where she could still hear the intoxicating, delightful thunder of applause.  It had come.  She could act.  She could.  Oh!  She couldn’t live and be any happier.

But, after all she could stand a little more joy without coming to an untimely end, for there suddenly smiling at her from the threshold was Carol Clay congratulating her and telling her what a pleasure to-night’s Rose had been to the Rose of yesterday.  And before Tony could get her breath to do more than utter a rather shy and gasping word of gratitude, the actress had invited her to take tea with her on the next day and she had accepted and Carol Clay was gone.