nged and filleted
correctly and becomingly, her movements were assured; only looking at the
deeply drawn lines about her mouth, made one regret that her opening
speeches referred so distinctly to her "dewy youth"; but Cleveland was
well used to that sort of contradiction, and I might have taken heart of
grace for her if only she had not looked so very pleased and happy.

The opening scene of the old-fashioned play was well on when the star
appeared, and smiling graciously--faced the almost empty house. She
halted--she gave the sort of sudden gasp that a dash of icy water in the
face might cause. The humiliating half-dozen involuntary hand-claps that
had greeted her fell into silence as she came fully into view, where she
stood dismayed, stricken--for she was an old actress and she read the
signs aright, she knew this was the great _taboo_.

Her face whitened beneath her rouge, her lips moved silently. One moment
she turned her back squarely upon the audience, for she knew her face was
anguished, and moved by the same instinct that makes an Indian draw the
blanket across his dying face, or the wounded animal seek deepest
solitude, she sought to hide _her_ suffering from the coldly observant
few.

With the light stricken from her eyes they looked dull and sunken, while
every nerve and muscle of her poor face seemed a-quiver. It was a
dreadful moment for us who looked on and understood.

Presently she clinched her hands, drew a long breath, and facing about,
took up the burden of the play, and in cold, flat tones began her part.
She did her best in the old, stilted declamatory style, that was as dead
as many of the men and women were who used to applaud it. Once only the
audience warmed to her a trifle, and as she accepted their half-hearted
"call," her sad eyes roved over the empty spaces of the house, a faint,
tired smile touched her lips, while two great tears coursed down her
cheeks. It was the moment of renunciation! They denied her right to the
crown of popularity, and she, with that piteous smile, bowed to their
verdict, as an actress must.

At the curtain's final fall her stardom was over. She went very quietly
to Mr. Ellsler and gave him back the engagement he had granted her,
saying, simply: "They do not want me any longer."

A short time after that, she sat one evening in Mr. Ellsler's family box,
and with wide, astonished eyes gazed at the packed house which greeted
the jig, the clog, the song, the banjo