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 but refusing to let him talk; and he was so grateful to her for her thoughtfulness that he did not ask himself whether it had not been she who had found a way to let Mrs. Richardson know that Margaret was on the stage. She spoke of indifferent matters: of her change of boarding-house, of Mr. Polk's new play, of the hope that if Polk's theatre were a success she might not have "to leave Broadway" all winter, of Miss Arden's "hit" in a comic opera, of the affairs of the "profession" at large. He listened, too tired to do more than smile. He returned with her to the theatre, rested and refreshed.

The afternoon passed as quickly as the morning had, but with less strain; for the first rush for tickets was over, and he worked with greater ease. When the box office closed, he excused himself to Walter, on the plea of an "engagement," and cut through the crowds to his car like the most breathless of those New Yorkers whose haste he had once envied as he sat idle in Union Square.

He ran upstairs to her room and rapped joyfully. Mrs. McGahn opened the door to him. He stared. "Where is she?"

"She's here. But it's no thanks to you! Come in here."

"What's the matter?" He came in wonderingiy, and stopped, frightened, at the sight of Margaret lying on a sofa. "Is she sick?"

"Sick! If she ain't, it's a wonder! I'd be sick meself!"

"Mother's been here," Margaret said faintly, her back to him.