The treasurer smiled pityingly, and continued, “I have known her intimately for twelve years, sir; she is the widow of—­”

“No—­no!” came the now sobbing voice.  “No—­no!  Oh, Daisy, dear, tell him! tell him!”

And the young girl, very white, and trembling visibly, said:  “I hope you will forgive us, Mr. W——­, but from causeless jealousy my father deserted mother, and—­and he stole my little brother, mamma’s only son!  We have never heard of either of them since.  Widowhood seemed a sort of protection to poor mamma, and she has hidden behind its veil for sixteen years.  She meant no harm.  She would have told you before—­”

She turned crimson and stopped, but that burning blush told its story plainly; and Mr. Daly busied himself over the pouring of a glass of wine for the robbed mother, while the treasurer in low tones assured Daisy there was nothing to forgive, and gratefully accepted the permission granted him to see the poor things safely home.

Sixteen years’ silence is not so bad for a sex who can’t keep a secret!

CHAPTER VII

A CASE OF “TRYING IT ON A DOG"_

It was before I came to New York that I one night saw a really fine performance almost ruined by a single interruption.  It was a domestic tragedy of English rural life, and one act began with a tableau copied exactly from a popular painting called “Waiting for the Verdict,” which was also the title of the play.

The scene gave an exterior view of the building within which the husband and father was being tried for his life on a charge of murder.  The trembling old grandsire leaned heavily on his staff; the devoted wife sat wearily by the closed iron gate, with a babe on her breast, tired but vigilant; a faithful dog stretched himself at her feet, while his shaggy shoulders pillowed the head of the sleeping child, who was the accused man’s darling.

The curtain rose on this picture, which was always heartily greeted, and often, so well it told its pathetic story, a second and a third round of applause greeted it before the dialogue began.  The manager’s little daughter, who did the sleeping child, contracted a cold and was advised not to venture out of the house for a fortnight, so a substitute had to be found, and a fine lot of trouble the stage-manager had.  He declared half the children of Columbus had been through his sieve; and there was the trouble—­they all went through, there was no one left to act as substitute.  But at last he found two promising little girls, sisters they were, and very poor; but the mother vowed her children must be in bed at nine, theatre or no theatre; yes, she would like to have the money, but she’d do without it rather than have a child out of bed at all hours.  At first she held out for nine o’clock, but at last yielded the additional half-hour; and to the great disappointment of the younger child, the elder one was accepted, for the odd reason that she looked so much younger than her sister.