ments, but
always to come out stronger for the test.

The next few months were devoted to preparations for the baby, and our
financial reckonings had to be readjusted. I had to find ways of making
a little more money. I was not after much money, but I must have more.
All I had to sell was what I could write. Where was a quick market for a
poor newspaper man's wares?

My experience with Mr. Dixey turned me to the vaudeville stage. I could
write playlets, I thought. So while Mother was busy sewing at nights I
devoted myself to writing. And at last the first sketch was finished. At
the Temple Theatre that week was the popular character actor, William H.
Thompson. To him I showed the manuscript of the sketch, which was called
"The Matchmaker." Mr. Thompson took it on Tuesday; and on Friday he sent
word that he wished to see me. Into his dressing-room I went, almost
afraid to face him.

"It's a bully little sketch," said he, as I sat on his trunk, "and I'd
like to buy it from you. I can't pay as much as I should like; but if
you care to let me have it I'll give you two hundred and fifty
dollars--one hundred and fifty dollars now, and the remaining hundred
next week."

I tried to appear indifferent, but the heart of me was almost bursting
with excitement. It meant that the furniture bill was as good as paid!
And there would be money in the bank for the first time since we were
married! The deal was made, and I left the theatre with the largest sum
of money I had ever made all at once. Later someone said to me that I
was foolish to sell that sketch outright for so little money.

"Foolish!" said I. "That two hundred and fifty dollars looked bigger to
me than the promise of a thousand some day in the future!"

Once more the way out had been provided.

And then came the baby--a glorious little girl--and the home had begun
to be worth-while. There was a new charm to the walls and halls. The oak
table and the green plush settee took on a new glory.

I was the usual proud father, with added variations of my own. One of my
pet illusions was that none, save Mother and me, was to be trusted to
hold our little one. When others _would_ take her, I stood guard to
catch her if in some careless moment they should let her fall.

As she grew older, my collars became finger-marked where her little
hands had touched them. We had pictures on our walls, of course, and
trinkets on the mantelpiece, and a large glass mirror which had been