speaking part, but the remainder of his waking hours, while he was attired in working-clothes, was diligently devoted to the strenuous labor of his muscles.  The novelty of the life had long since vanished, the so eagerly expected experience had already become amply sufficient; again and again, flinging his wearied body upon a cot in some strange room, he had called himself an unmitigated ass, and sworn loudly that he would certainly quit in the morning.  Yet the girl held him.  He did not completely realize how or why, yet some peculiar, indefinite fascination appeared to bind his destinies to her; he ever desired to see her once again, to be near her, to feel the charm of her work, to listen to the sound of her voice, to experience the thrill of her presence.  So strong and compelling became this influence over him that day after day he held on, actually afraid to sever that slight bond of professional companionship.

This was most assuredly through no fault of hers.  It was at Shelbyville that she first spoke to him, first gave him the earliest intimation that she even so much as recognized his presence in the company.  The house that particular night was crowded to the doors, and she, completing a piece of work which left her cheeks flushed, her slender form trembling from intense emotion, while the prolonged applause thundered after her from the front, stepped quickly into the gloomy shadows of the wings, and thus came face to face with Winston.  His eyes were glowing with unconcealed appreciation of her art.  Perhaps the quick reaction had partially unstrung her nerves, for she spoke with feverish haste at sight of his uprolled sleeves and coarse woollen shirt.

“How does it occur that you are always standing directly in my passage whenever I step from the stage?” she questioned impetuously.  “Is there no other place where you can wait to do your work except in my exit?”

For a brief moment the surprised man stood hesitating, hat in hand.

“I certainly regret having thus unintentionally offended you, Miss Norvell,” he explained at last, slowly.  “Yet, surely, the occasion should bring you pleasure rather than annoyance.”

“Indeed!  Why, pray?”

“Because I so greatly enjoy your work.  I stood here merely that I might observe the details more carefully.”

She glanced directly at him with suddenly aroused interest.

“You enjoy my work?” she exclaimed, slightly smiling.  “How extremely droll!  Yet without doubt you do, precisely as those others, out yonder, without the slightest conception of what it all means.  Probably you are equally interested in the delicate art of Mr. T. Macready Lane?”

Winston permitted his cool gray eyes to brighten, his firmly set lips slightly to relax.

“Lane is the merest buffoon,” he replied quietly.  “You are an artist.  There is no comparison possible, Miss Norvell.  The play itself is utterly unworthy of your talent, yet you succeed in dignifying it in a way I can never cease to admire.”