ed the throwing
of Charles, the wrestler, and her promise "to make all this matter
even." There was no touch of coarseness in her rollicking laughter,
no hoydenish swagger in her masquerading; it was all subtly,
irresistibly feminine. And George Travis, watching from the obscurity
of a back seat, pounded his knee with triumph and swore he would make
her the greatest Shakespearean actress of the day.

As Hymen sang her parting song, Patsy scanned the sea of faces beyond
the bank of juniper which served instead of footlights. Already she
had picked out Travis, Janet Payne and her party, the people from
Quality House, who still gaped at her, unbelieving, and young
Peterson-Jones, looking more melancholy, myopic, and poetical than
before. But the one face she hoped to find was missing, even among
the stragglers at the back; and it took all her self-control to keep
disappointment and an odd, hurt feeling out of her voice as she gave
the epilogue.

On the way to her tent--a half-score of them were used as
dressing-rooms behind the stage--George Travis overtook her. "It's
all right, girl. You've made a bigger hit than even I expected. I'm
going to try you out in--"

Patsy cut him short. "You sat at the back. Did you see a vagabond lad
hanging around anywhere--with a limp to him?"

The manager looked at her with amused toleration. "Does a mere man
happen to be of more consequence this minute than your success? Oh, I
say, that's not like you, Irish Patsy!"

She crimsoned, and the manager teased no more. "We play Greyfriars
to-morrow and back to Brambleside the day after; and I've made up my
mind to try you out there in Juliet. If you can handle tragedy as you
can comedy, I'll star you next winter on Broadway. Oh, your future's
very nearly made, you lucky girl!"

But Patsy, slipping into her tent, hardly heard the last. If they
played Greyfriars the next day, that meant they would leave Arden on
the first train after they were packed; and that meant she was
passing once and for all beyond tramping reach of the tinker. There
was a dull ache at her heart which she attempted neither to explain
nor to analyze; it was there--that was enough. With impatient fingers
she tore off Rosalind's wedding finery and attacked her make-up. Then
she lingered over her dressing, hoping to avoid the rest of the
company and any congratulatory friends who might happen to be
browsing around. She wanted to be alone with her memories--to have
and