The Worthington advance. [volume] (Worthington, Minn.) 1874-1908, 1898-12-08

dience; and she smiles back at them
until they think that life to her must he
q happy dream. While the comedian,
who stands poised on table, forgets
to grimace at the people as he watches
her until she makes her exit.
Then he. turns with leap and is a
fool once more.
When at last the curtain is rung down
he hurries to the dressing-room, and,
discarding the ugly wig, washes the
grease paint from his face and stands,
no longer fool, but father whose
only thought is for his child. -
AS soon as his trunk is packed he goes
downstairs to find the dancer waiting
at the stage door. b.
"May go home with you?" she asks,
beseechingly.
II would rather, for your sake, you
would not" he answers.
But his voice bellies his words, so he
puts her arm in his and together they
pass down the street, only pausing for
a moment beneath a dim lamp that he
may wrap his muff1er around her neck.
"You know what this means,
Blanche?"
eyes, Ralph"
Then they pass on again.
They reach the cheap hotel near the
railroad station, ascend the narrow
stairs and along a gloomy hall until
they reach door at the farther end.
The comedian turns the knob and en-
tiers, leaving the dancer standing in he
doorway while he lights lamp; when
the Pickering flame throws its feeble
light around the dreary room he nilr-
ries to the bed, where child lies sleep
ing.
AS he stoops to kiss the burning tenn
Piles the child opens her eyes, and, put
ting her arms around his neck, whis-
pers:
81 was dreaming of mamma, dad"
Then as her eyes rest on the figure
in the doorway a smile of happiness
steals across the wan face. "Is it man.
MAJ" she asks. IT'S it mamma who has
come back to me?"
"No, my dear. She is some one who
loved dad when he was better man.
make you we'll again."
He turns away as the dancer stoops
to kiss the child's feverish cheek and
brush the golden hair from the burn
ing forehead. But he cannot help per-
ceive the start she gives at seeing the
child's resemblance to it's dead mother.
AS the dancer takes off her heavy
cloak the comedian goes to the bed,
and, wrapping the child in blanket.
seats himself in rocking chair and
tries to lull the little one to sleep by
singing lullaby.
The dancer busies herself about the
room, smoothing the pillows and hang
ing up the child's clothing, stopping
now and then to smile on him. And
when everything is put away she pushes
stool to his feet and seats herself
by his side, prepared to share his vigil.
Hour after hour they sit there, not a
sound breaking the stiffness of the
night but the low lullaby. Then the
song dies away. A cry rings through
the room as the comedian springs to
his feet and with trembling hands tears
the blanket from the face of the child.
But the eyes are closed-the hands are
eold-the child is dead.
Next morning, in the churchyard,
they bury her. When the dull thud
from the sod is echoed back as it strikes
the coffin lid the father turns awayand
hurries to the station to catch the west
ern train. He must laugh tonight acd
make others laugh, for he is an actor
playing one-night stands. But he is no
longer alone. The wrong he has done
the woman beside him is forgiven, ard
she has promised to be what she would
have been years before but for the
treachery of another-his wife.