ood, Flo; and always--and always--you filled my
heart."

"Don't, Tommy."

"And when I asked you--and when you laughed----" he broke off abruptly.

"Don't," she pleaded--"don't, Tommy. It was cruel of me----"

He came nearer still--his arms outstretched now. She rose with a
swift, "No, no, Tommy, I cannot--not yet--wait a little longer--give me
a little time," and there was a note of appeal in her voice. She went
on rapidly. "I must feel that I can give you all that you would have,
Tommy. There is no other man--believe me--and my work--my work--well,
it is not all now. There are times when--" and again she halted. Then
looking at him bravely, she said, "Tommy, if you are of the same mind
at the end of the season, and there is no other woman," this with a
gleam of mischief in her eyes, "perhaps I'll know for sure."

And Tommy, the silver-tongued auctioneer, the man whose eloquence
opened people's pockets and made them buy bargains they didn't want,
meekly accepted her rebuff when she refused even to allow him to kiss
her hand, and left her when she said, "It must be good-night, Tommy,
now."

The next morning the newspapers with one accord paid tribute to the
cleverness of the Loch Lomond scene in "Flo Dearmore's turn," and at
every remaining performance it was repeated. But William had no part
in it. A choir boy from a city church got "the big money" the manager
had talked of. And Tommy Watson, who attended every performance during
the week for just so long as Flo Dearmore's act lasted, began to eat
like a man who had many slim meals to make up for.

CHAPTER VIII

The truth as to William's turn at the Variety having gradually become
known among his friends, he assumed, in the opinion of various of his
youthful associates, an importance not hitherto felt for him, and this
manifested itself in the form of an invitation to take part in "Uncle
Tom's Cabin," to be presented by the Berkeley Junior Dramatic Society.
William's eager consent was somewhat dampened when he was informed by
the young and ambitious manager of the production that he would have to
take the part of a small coloured boy and that there were no lines for
him--particularly. "You'll just come in kind of incidental," said the
manager--who was not much older than William--"and sing a piece."

"Not much. No singing for mine."

"Pshaw! It'll be dead easy, and I bet it'll make a hit too. You know
the stunt--lights down--spotlight on