He bumped against me
as he was crying: "I say there--you--have you seen--oh, I--er beg your
pardon!"

I also apologized, and added: "If you please, sir, does this belong to
you? I found it behind the scenes."

He caught it from my hand, bent to look at it in the dim light, then,
pressing it to his lips, exclaimed fervently: "Thank the good God!" He
held up a length of broken black ribbon, saying: "Hey, but you have
played me a nice trick!" I understood at once that he used the locket in
"Hamlet," and I ventured: "If you can't wear gold and your ribbon cuts,
could you not have a silver chain oxidized for your 'property' picture,
sir?" He chucked me under the chin, exclaiming: "A good idea
that--I--I'll tell Ellen of that; but, my dear, this is no 'property'
locket--this is one of my greatest earthly treasures--it's the picture
of----"

He stopped--he looked at me for quite a moment, then he said: "You come
here to the light." I followed him obediently. "Now can you tell me who
that is a miniature of?" and he placed the oval case in my hands. I gave
a glance at the curled hair, the beautiful profile, the broad turned-down
collar, and smilingly exclaimed: "It's Lord Byron!"

Good gracious, what was the matter with the little old gentleman! "Ha!
ha!" he cried. "Ha! ha! listen to the girl!" He fairly pranced about; he
got clear out on the dark stage and, holding out his hands to the
emptiness, cried again: "Listen to the girl--Lord Byron, says she--at one
glance!"

"Well," I replied resentfully, "it _does_ look like Byron!" And he "Ha!
ha'd!" some more, and wiped his eyes and said, "I must tell Ellen this.
Come here, my dear, come here!" He took my hand and led me to the
dressing-room, crying: "It's Charles, my dear--it's Charles--and oh, my
dear, my dear, I--I have it--see now!" he held up the locket.

"Oh, how glad I am! And now, Charles, perhaps you'll give up that
miserable ribbon," and she kissed his cheek in congratulation.

But on the old gentleman went: "And, Ellen, my dear, look at this girl
here--just look at her. She found him for me, and I said, who is he--and
she up and said--Ellen, are you listening?--said she, 'It's Lord Byron!'"

"Did she now?" exclaimed Mrs. Kean, with pleased eyes.

But I was getting mad, and I snapped a bit, I'm afraid, when I said:
"Well, I don't know who it is, but it does look like Byron--I'll leave it
to anyone in the company if it doesn't!"

"Listen to her, Ellen! Hang me