She knew that she was dying.  Meanwhile, her appearance as leading lady of Mr. Placide’s company of high class players was flauntingly announced by newspaper and bill-board.

The advertisement had put society in a flutter; for Elizabeth Arnold Poe was a favorite with the public not only for her graces of person and personality, her charming acting, singing and dancing, but she had that incalculable advantage for an actress—­an appealing life-story.  It was known that she had lately lost a dearly loved and loving husband whom she had tenderly nursed through a distressing illness.  It was also known that the husband had been a descendant of a proud old family and that the same high spirit which had led his grandfather, General Poe, passionately denouncing British tyranny, to join the Revolutionary Army, had, taking a different turn with the grandson, made him for the sake of the gifted daughter of old England who had captured his heart—­actress though she was—­sever home ties, abandon the career chosen for him by his parents, and devote himself to the profession of which she was a chief ornament.  A brief five years of idylic happiness the pair had spent together—­happiness in spite of much work and some tears;—­then David Poe had succumbed to consumption, leaving a penniless widow with three children to support.  The eldest, a boy, was adopted by his father’s relatives in Baltimore.  The other two—­a boy of three years in whom were blended the spirit, the beauty, the talent and the ardent nature of both parents, and a soft-eyed, cooing baby girl—­were clinging about their mother whenever she was seen off the stage, making a picture that was the admiration of all beholders.

The last roses of the year would soon be gone from the gardens, but Mrs. Fipps’ windows blossomed gallantly with garlands and sprays more wonderful than any that ever grew on tree or shrub.  Not for many a long day had the shop enjoyed such a thriving trade, for no sooner had the news that Mr. Placide’s company would open a season at the theatre been noised abroad than the town beaux addressed themselves to the task of penning elegant little notes inviting the town belles to accompany them to the play, while the belles themselves, scenting an opportunity to complete the wreck of masculine hearts that was their chief business, addressed themselves as promptly to the quest of the most ravishing theatre bonnets which the latest Paris fashions as interpreted by Mrs. Fipps could produce.  As that lady bustled back and forth among her customers, her mouth full of pins and hands full of ribbons, feathers, flowers and what not, her face wore, in spite of her prosperity, an expression of unusual gravity.

She could not get the lodger in the back room off her mind.

Mr. Placide, who had been to see the sick woman, was confident that her disorder was “nothing serious,” and that she would be able to meet her engagements, and charged the thrifty dealer in fashionable head-gear and furnished rooms by no means to let the fact that the star was ill “get out.”  But the fever-flush that tinged the patient’s pale cheeks and the cough that racked her wasted frame seemed very like danger signals to good Mrs. Fipps, and though she did not realize the hopelessness of the case, her spirits were oppressed by a heaviness that would not be shaken off.