she had much affection. She
was alone in the world. Her interest in the theatre was gradually
replaced by religion. Once she heard with real regret that Lenore had
lost her memory, and chloral was hinted at as the cause. She thought of
trying to save her, of making an earnest appeal to that better self
which, according to Marion, exists in all of us. But when she made
further inquiries about her, with a view to rescuing her, she was
daunted by the discovery that Lenore had been privately married to
Delacour for some time past, and that her declension, which was really
due to drink, dated from the time of the marriage.

A year passed. Delacour began to make fitful reappearances, then more
frequent ones. He took and kept regular engagements. But his wife
returned no more.

Presently Marion's own play was revived with success. It was one of
Delacour's greatest parts. And Marion went to see it, hidden behind the
curtains of her box.

The years since she had last sat in that box had not dealt kindly with
her. Her discontented face showed that she was one of the many victims
of arrested development, still hampered in middle age by the egotistic
longings of youth. In youth we all want to receive instead of to give,
to be loved, to be served, to be admired. Middle age is the time to
reverse engines, the time to love, to serve, to give rather than to
receive. Marion had not learned that elementary lesson of life. We all
recognise them at sight, the nervous, fretful faces of the middle-aged
men and women who want to be loved. And love knows them, too, and--flies
them.

The manager, somewhat pinched and grizzled, as from a long fast, came in
to see her between the acts, and growled out his disapproval of his
leading lady.

"She's nothing to Lenore," he said.

"Is she too"--Marion sought for a charitable word--"too ill to act?"

"She is too ill to act," said the manager. "She will never act any more.
She is dying."

There was a silence.

"She is dying of drink," he said; "and if there is such a place as
heaven, she is very near it. And if there is such a person as God, I
hope she will say a word for me when she gets there."

Marion did not speak. She was horrified.

"She would marry Delacour," said the manager. "I begged her to marry me.
Over and over again I asked her. But she said I could do without her,
and Delacour couldn't. They fell in love with each other at this very
play when it was first put on. I saw it co