and my very first and best chum, forever!"

Mary nodded dumbly, her blue eyes overflowing.
"I've--come--back--to--you--to stay," she whispered. And on the stone
steps, worn by the passing of the feet of those who had entered the
theatre to play many parts, these two young players in Life's varied
drama enacted a little scene of love and forgiveness that was entirely
their own.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE FULFILLMENT

The chorus were tunefully lifting up their voices in their initial
number, their watchful eyes on Professor Harmon's baton, when the
belated Princess hurried to her position in the wings. Laurie Armitage
had returned to the stage and was instituting a wild search for
Constance. Failing to find her upstairs, he had hastened below, and was
rushing desperately up and down the corridors, peering into the open
doorways of the deserted dressing rooms. Only one door was closed.
Behind it a black-haired girl awaited a call to fame. He called
Constance by name, again and again, then, receiving no answer, he dashed
up the stairs, encountering the object of his search at the very height
of his alarm. Marjorie Dean stood on guard beside her. She advanced
toward the excited composer, saying briefly, "Let her alone, Laurie.
She's awfully nervous and upset. She has just had a dreadful fright.
I'll tell you about it later."

Constance cast a reassuring glance at Laurie. She had heard Marjorie's
protecting words. "I'm all right now," she nodded. "I won't fail you."

The dulcet notes of her opening song, "I'm tired of being a Princess,"
brought immeasurable relief to Lawrence and Marjorie, as they stood in
the wings, their anxious gaze fixed upon Constance. In one of the
dressing rooms below, the silver strains came faintly to the ears of
Mignon La Salle. During her interval of waiting she had been softly
humming that very song, confident of the summons she believed she would
receive. She had no doubt that her cowardly plan had worked only too
well. Knowing Constance Stevens' deep affection for her tiny foster
brother, she could readily see a vision of the terrified girl rushing
out into the night in search of him, her duty to the operetta completely
forgotten. As the sound of that hated voice reached her, she sprang to
the door of her dressing room and half opening it, halted to listen. A
wave of black rage swept over her. Forgetting her recent change of
costume, she took the stairs, two at a time, and ran squarely a