and disease worked with her.

Charles Barras said, with bitter sarcasm in his voice: "I-I-I always see
m-my wife Sallie with a helpless woman over each shoulder, a-a-and myself
on her back, like the 'old man of the sea,' a-a-a pretty heavy burden
that for a sick woman to carry, my girl! a-a-and a mighty pleasant
picture for a man to have of his wife! A-a-and money--great God, money,
right now, might save her--might save her!" He turned suddenly from me
and walked on to the pitch-dark stage.

Poor Mr. Barras, I could laugh no more at his heelless boots, his funny
half-stammer, and his ancient wig, not even when I recall the memory of
that blazing Sunday in a Cincinnati Episcopal church, when, the stately
liturgy over, the Reverend Doctor ascended the pulpit and, regardless of
the suffering of his sweltering hearers, droned on endlessly, and Mr.
Barras leaned forward, and drawing a large palm fan from the next pew's
rack, calmly lifted his wig off with one hand while with the other he
alternately fanned his ivory bald head and the steaming interior of his
wig. The action had an electrical effect. In a moment even the sleepers
were alert, awake, a fact which so startled the preacher that he lost
his place--hemmed--h-h-med, and ran down, found the place again,
started, saw Barras fanning his wig, though paying still most decorous
attention to the pulpit, and before they knew it they were all
scrambling to their feet at "Might, Majesty, and Power!"--were
scrabbling for their pockets at "Let your light so shine," for Mr.
Barras had shortened the service with a vengeance; hence the forgiving
glances cast upon him as he carefully replaced his wig and sauntered
forth.

Several years after that night in Columbus, when I had reached New York
and was rehearsing for my first appearance there, I one morning heard
hasty, shuffling steps following me, and before I could enter the
stage-door, a familiar "Er-er-er Clara, Clara!" stopped me, and I turned
to face the wealthy author of the "Black Crook"--Mr. Charles Barras.
There he stood in apparently the same heelless cloth gaiters, the same
empty-looking black alpaca suit, the clumsy turned-over collar that was
an integral part of the shirt and not separate from it, the big black
satin handkerchief-tie that he had worn years ago, but the face, how
bloodless, shrunken, lined, and sorrowful it looked beneath the
adamantine youthfulness of that chestnut wig!

"D-d-don't you know me?" h