Oh, her story was too easy to read!  Puir lassie—­some scoundrel had deceived her and betrayed her.  He’d won her confidence by pretending to be my cousin—­why, God knows, nor why that should have made the lassie trust him.  I had to break the truth to her, and it was terrible to see her grief.

“Oh!” she cried.  “Then he has lied to me!  And I trusted him utterly—­ with everything I could!”

It was an awkward and painful position for me—­the worst I can bring to mind.  That the scoundrel should have used my name made matters worse, from my point of view.  The puir lassie was in no condition to leave the theatre when it came time for my turn, so I sent for one o’ the lady dressers and arranged for her to be cared for till later.  Then, after my turn, I went back, and learned the whole story.

It was an old story enough.  A villain had betrayed this mitherless lassie; used her as a plaything for months, and then, when the inevitable happened, deserted her, leaving her to face a stern father and a world that was not likely to be tender to her.  The day she came to me her father had turned her oot—­to think o’ treatin’ one’s ain flesh and blood so!

There was little enow that I could do.  She had no place to gae that nicht, so I arranged wi’ the dresser, a gude, motherly body, to gie her a lodging for the nicht, and next day I went mysel’ to see her faither—­a respectable foreman he turned oot to be.  I tault him hoo it came that I kenned aboot his dochter’s affairs, and begged him would he no reconsider and gie her shelter?  I tried to mak’ him see that onyone micht be tempted once to do wrong, and still not be hopelessly lost, and asked him would he no stand by his dochter in her time o’ sair trouble.

He said ne’er a word whiles I talked.  He was too quiet, I knew.  But then, when I had said all I could, he told me that the girl was no longer his dochter.  He said she had brought disgrace upon him and upon a godly hoose, and that he could but hope to forget that she had ever lived.  And he wished me good day and showed me the door.

I made such provision for the puir lassie as I could, and saw to it that she should have gude advice.  But she could no stand her troubles.  Had her faither stood by her—­but, who kens, who kens?  I only know that a few weeks later I learned that she had drowned herself.  I would no ha’ liked to be her faither when he learned that.

Thank God I ha’ few such experiences as that to remember.  But there’s a many that were more pleasant.  I’ve made some o’ my best friends in my travels.  And the noo, when the wife and I gang aboot the world, there’s good folk in almost every toon we come to to mak’ us feel at hame.  I’ve ne’er been one to stand off and refuse to have ought to do wi’ the public that made me and keeps me.  They’re a’ my friends, that clap me in an audience, till they prove that they’re no’—­and sometimes it’s my best friends that seem to be unkindest to me!