mind in the novelty of the set now
exposed, and in the thought that his personality was to dominate it. The
scene of the little drama's unfolding was a delicatessen shop. Counters
and shelves were arrayed with cooked foods, salads, cheeses, the latter
under glass or wire protectors. At the back was a cashier's desk, an
open safe beside it. He took his place there at Baird's direction and
began to write in a ledger.

"Now your old mother's coming to mop up the place," called Baird. "Come
on, Mother! You look up and see her, and rush over to her. She puts down
her bucket and mop, and takes you in her arms. She's weeping; you try to
comfort her; you want her to give up mopping, and tell her you can make
enough to support two, but she won't listen because there's the mortgage
on the little flat to be paid off. So you go back to the desk, stopping
to give her a sad look as she gets down on the floor. Now, try it."

A very old, bent, feeble woman with a pail of water and cloths tottered
on. Her dress was ragged, her white hair hung about her sad old face in
disorderly strands. She set down her bucket and raised her torn apron to
her eyes.

"Look up and see her," called Baird. "A glad light comes into her eyes.
Rush forward--say 'Mother' distinctly, so it'll show. Now the clench.
You're crying on his shoulder, Mother, and he's looking down at you
first, then off, about at me. He's near crying himself. Now he's telling
you to give up mopping places, and you're telling him every little
helps.

"All right, break. Get to mopping, Mother, but keep on crying. He stops
for a long look at you. He seems to be saying that some day he will take
you out of such work. Now he's back at his desk. All right. But we'll
do it once more. And a little more pathos, Merton, when you take the old
lady in your arms. You can broaden it. You don't actually break down,
but you nearly do."

The scene was rehearsed again, to Baird's satisfaction, and the cameras
ground. Merton Gill gave the best that was in him. His glad look at
first beholding the old lady, the yearning of his eyes when his arms
opened to enfold her, the tenderness of his embrace as he murmured
soothing words, the lingering touch of his hand as he left her, the
manly determination of the last look in which he showed a fresh resolve
to release her from this toil, all were eloquent of the deepest filial
devotion and earnestness of purpose.

Back at his desk he was genuinely pitying