skirts, consented to
their lengthening, and though I knew she had meant them to stop at my
shoe-tops, I basely allowed a misunderstanding to arise with the
dress-maker, through which my new dress came home the full length of the
grown-ups, and though my conscience worried me a bit, I still snatched a
fearful joy from my stolen dignity, and many a day I walked clear up to
Superior Street that I might slowly pass the big show-windows and enjoy
the reflection therein of my long dress-skirt. Of course I could not
continue to wear my hair _a la_ pigtail, and that went up in the then
fashionable chignon.

Few circumstances in my life have given me such unalloyed satisfaction as
did my first proposal of marriage. I should, however, be more exact if I
spoke of an "attempted proposal," for it was not merely interrupted, but
was simply mangled out of all likeness to sentiment or romance. The party
of the first part in this case was Mr. Frank Murdoch, who later on became
the author of "Davy Crockett," the play that did so much toward the
making and the unmaking of the reputation of that brilliant actor, the
late Frank Mayo. He was the adoring elder brother of that successful
young Harry Murdoch who was to meet such an awful fate in the Brooklyn
Theatre fire. Neither of them, by the way, were born to the name of
Murdoch; they were the sons of James E.'s sister, and when, in spite of
his advice and warning, they decided to become actors, they added insult
to injury, as it were, by demanding of him the use of his name--their own
being a particularly unattractive one for a play-bill. He let them plead
long and hard before he yielded and allowed them to take for life the
name of Murdoch--which as a trade-mark, and quite aside from sentiment,
had a real commercial value to these young fellows who had yet to prove
their individual personal worth.

Frank was very young--indeed, our united ages would have barely reached
thirty-six. He had good height, a good figure, and an air of gentle
breeding; otherwise he was unattractive, and yet he bore a striking
resemblance to his uncle, James Murdoch, who had a fine head and most
regular features. But through some caprice of nature in the nephew those
same features received a touch of exaggeration here, or a slight twist
there, with the odd result of keeping the resemblance to the uncle
intact, while losing all his beauty. Frank had a quixotic sense of honor
and a warm and generous heart, but be