t the injustice of a
situation where such artists could be shunted into a theater in The
South End where no one ever saw them--at least no one of the world of
art and letters. Their cause was my cause, their success my chief
concern.

_Drifting Apart_, I soon discovered, was only the beginning of Herne's
ambitious design to write plays which should be as true in their local
color as Howells' stories. He was at this time working on two plays
which were to bring lasting fame and a considerable fortune. One of
these was a picture of New England coast life and the other was a study
of factory life. One became _Shore Acres_ and the other _Margaret
Fleming_.

From time to time as we met he read me these plays, scene by scene, as
he wrote them, and when _Margaret Fleming_ was finished I helped him put
it on at Chickering Hall. My brother was in the cast and I served as
"Man in Front" for six weeks--again without pay of course--and did my
best to let Boston know what was going on there in that little
theater--the first of all the "Little Theaters" in America. Then came
the success of _Shore Acres_ at the Boston Museum and my sense of
satisfaction was complete.

How all this puts me back into that other shining Boston! I am climbing
again those three long flights of stairs to the _Transcript_ office.
Chamberlin extends a cordial hand, Clement nods as I pass his door. It
is raining, and in the wet street the vivid reds, greens, and yellows of
the horse-cars, splash the pavement with gaudy color. Round the tower of
the Old South Church the doves are whirling.

It is Saturday. I am striding across the Common to Park Square, hurrying
to catch the 5:02 train. The trees of the Mall are shaking their heavy
tears upon me. Drays thunder afar off. Bells tinkle.--How simple, quiet,
almost village-like this city of my vision seems in contrast with the
Boston of today with its diabolic subways, its roaring overhead trains,
its electric cars and its streaming automobiles!

Over and over again I have tried to re-discover that Boston, but it is
gone, never to return. Herne is dead, Hurd is dead, Clement no longer
edits the _Transcript_, Howells and Mary Wilkins live in New York.
Louise Chandler Moulton lies deep in that grave of whose restful quiet
she so often sang, and Edward Everett Hale, type of a New England that
was old when I was young, has also passed into silence. His name like
that of Higginson and Holmes is only a faint memory