A gentleman in the audience left his chair, and, walking over, spoke to Mrs. White.  He was Dr. Baker, one of the hospital staff.

“I think I know that child,” he said.  “Does she not live with an aged couple named Manning?”

“I believe she does,” replied Mrs. White, making a place for Dr. Baker to sit down beside her.  “My niece Dorothy is much interested in the child—­she seems to have a faculty for discovering genius, has Dorothy.”

“Well, I have not seen little Mary for some years, but there is no mistaking her.  Her mother, an actress, died in one of the charity wards of the hospital, and I am afraid the child has inherited the fatal malady from her mother.  She looks now like a consumptive.”

Mrs. White was startled.  Certainly Mary was delicate in appearance, but she had not thought of her as having a disease.

“There’s no time to spare in her case,” said the physician in a low voice.  “Bring her to me as soon as you can.”

“Dorothy did not expect to have a real case assisted so promptly,” remarked Mrs. White.  “It is rather out of the ordinary—­a patient playing for her own benefit.”

“I suspect that your pretty niece brought this child out with the sole purpose of making her happy,” said Dr. Baker, “and she evidently has no idea how much real happiness she is destined to confer on her.  Perhaps a month later it would have been too late to save her.  Now I think we can, though there is a flush on her cheeks that I do not like.”

The curtains were separated to disclose the last number.  It was a tableau of all the girls and boys, posing as the “Haymakers.”  It made a beautiful picture, the girls in their gaily-colored dresses, with great, broad-brimmed hats, and the boys dressed in equally rural costumes.

Dorothy was so glad that it was all over—­that this was the last picture.  Agnes stood next to her.  The curtains were drawn, and then separated again in response to insistent applause.  There was a moment more of posing, and then it was all over.

As the curtain shut out the sight of the audience, Agnes slipped her arm around Dorothy’s waist.  Then she leaned over and whispered in her ear.

“I am sorry to have made all that fuss about—­about him kissing me.  But, Doro, dear, I do hate a flirt, and everybody knows Tom Scott is in love with you.”

CHAPTER XXI

A STRANGE CONFESSION

Had Agnes actually struck her, Dorothy could not have been more surprised.  In the excitement and confusion of the finish of the performance, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for Dorothy to resent such a remark.  But after she had reached The Cedars and her quiet, little room, the words seemed to burn themselves into her mind.  How dared any one to speak so to her—­a mere schoolgirl, with no thoughts of love?

Pained and distressed, she put aside all the play finery and threw herself across the bed.  Scarcely had she done so ere she heard her aunt’s step approaching.