ing extremely sensitive as to his
personal defects he was often led into bursts of temper, during which he
frequently indulged in the most childish follies. These outbreaks were
always brief, and ever followed by deep contrition, so that he was
generally regarded as a very clever, spoiled child.

Poor boy! his life was as sad as it was short. There may be few who
remember him now, but a woman never forgets the man who first pays a
compliment to her eyes, nor can I forget the first man who handed me a
chair and opened and closed doors for me, just as for any grown-up.

He joined the company in about the middle of that season in which I acted
principally as utility man. He was to play singing parts and young
lovers, and, to his amusement, I criticized his reading of one of
_Cassio's_ speeches. Our wrangle over Shakespeare made friends of us at
once. He had a veritable passion for poetry, and with me he felt free to
bring out his beautiful hobby to mount and ride and ride, with some of
the great poets up behind and me for applauding audience. When he wanted
me to know some special poem he bought it for me if he could; but if he
was short of money, he carefully copied out its every line, tied the
manuscript neatly up with ribbon, and presented the poem in that form. I
came across a copy of "Maud Muller" the other day in Frank's clear, even
handwriting. The paper was yellow, the ribbon faded. Frank is gone,
Whittier is gone, but "Maud Muller" lives on in her immortal youth and
pain.

But the morning when he first brought and offered me a chair was nothing
less than an epoch in my life. At first I regarded the act as an
aspersion on my strength--a doubt cast upon my ability to obtain a seat
for myself. Then, as I glanced frowningly into his face, I suddenly
realized that it was meant as a mark of consideration--the courtesy a man
shows a woman. A glow of satisfaction spread through my being. I hated to
rise, I was so afraid the thing might never happen to me again. I need
not have worried, however, as I was soon to receive a more impressive
proof of his consideration for my welfare.

One of the most unpleasant experiences in the life of a young actress is
her frightened lonely rush through the city streets at twelve o'clock at
night to reach her boarding-house and claim sanctuary. I doubt if even a
Una and her lion could pass unmolested through those streets dotted with
all-night "free and easys," where, by the way, nothin