?"

"Coaxed her," said the child.

"Well, how did you make her hush up about it?"

"Told her I'd kill her if she said a single word," said Gerty,
undauntedly. "I showed her Pa De Marsan's old dirk-knife and told her
I'd stick it into her if she didn't hush. She was just such a
'fraid-cat she believed me. She might have known I didn't mean nothin'.
Now she can have 'em and be a lady. She was always tallkin' about bein'
a lady, and that put it into my head."

"What did she want to be a lady for?" asked Madam Delia, indignantly.

"Said she wanted to have a parlor and dress tight. I don't want to be
one of her old ladies. I want to stay with you, Delia, and learn the
clog-dance." And she threw her arms round the show-woman's neck and
cried herself to sleep.

Never did the energetic proprietress of a Museum and Variety
Combination feel a greater exultation than did Madam Delia that night.
The child's offence was all forgotten in the delight of the discovery
to which it led. If there had been expectations of social glories to
accrue to the house of De Marsan through Gerty's social promotion, they
melted away; and the more substantial delight of still having someone
to love and to be proud of,--some object of tenderness warmer than
snakes and within nearer reach than a Chinese giant,--this came in its
stead. The show, too, was in a manner on its feet again. De Marsan said
that he would rather have Gerty than a hundred-dollar bill. Madam Delia
looked forward and saw herself sinking into the vale of years without a
sigh,--reaching a period when a serpent fifteen feet long would cease
to charm, or she to charm it,--and still having a source of pride and
prosperity in this triumphant girl.

The tent was in its glory on the day of Gerty's return; to be sure,
nothing in particular had been washed except the face of Old Bill, but
that alone was a marvel compared with which all "Election Day" was
feeble, and when you add a paper collar, words can say no more.
Monsieur Comstock also had that "ten times barbered" look which
Shakespeare ascribes to Mark Antony, and which has belonged to that
hero's successors in the histrionic profession ever since. His chin was
unnaturally smooth, his mustache obtrusively perfumed, and nothing but
the unchanged dirtiness of his hands still linked him, like Antaeus,
with the earth. De Marsan had intended some personal preparation, but
had been, as usual, in no hurry, and the appointed moment foun