“I never heard of your sister, George,” said I. I knew he would not have spoken of her but for the heat he was in.

“No. I’m as dead to her, being what I am, as if I were six feet under ground.”

I turned and looked at him, and when I saw his face I said no more, and I never spoke of it again. It was something neither I nor any other man had any business with.

So when I saw how he was touched by Susy and drawn toward her, it raised her in my opinion, though I’d seen myself how pretty and sensible a little body she was. But I was sorry, for I knew ’twan’t no use. The Peters were Methodists, and Susy more strict than any of them; and I saw she looked on the theatre as the gate of hell, and George and me swinging over it.

I don’t think, though, that George saw how strong her feeling about it was, for after we’d been there a week or two he began to ask her to go and see us perform, if only for once. I believe he thought the girl would come to love him if she saw him at his best. I don’t wonder at it, sir. I’ve seen those pictures and statues they’ve made of the old gods, and I reckon they put in them the best they thought a man could be; but I never knew what real manhood was until I saw my partner when he stood quiet on the stage waiting the signal to begin, the light full on his keen blue eyes, the gold-worked velvet tunic and his perfect figure.

He looked more like other men in his ordinary clothing. George liked a bit of flash, too, in his dress—a red necktie or gold chain stretched over his waistcoat.

Susy refused at first, steadily. At last, however, came our final night, when George was to produce his great leaping feat, never yet performed in public. We had been practising it for months, and South judged it best to try it first before a small, quiet audience, for the risk was horrible. Whether because it was to be the last night, and her kind heart disliked to hurt him by refusal, or whether she loved him better than either she or he knew, I could not tell, but I saw she was strongly tempted to go. She was an innocent little thing, and not used to hide what she felt. Her eyes were red that morning, as though she had been crying all the night. Perhaps, because I was a married man, and quieter than George, she acted more freely with me than him.

“I wish I knew what to do,” she said, looking up to me with her eyes full of tears. There was nobody in the room but her grandmother.

“I couldn’t advise you, Miss Susy,” says I. “Your church discipline goes against our trade, I know.”

“I know what’s right myself: I don’t need church discipline to teach me,” she said sharply.

“I think I’d go, Susy,” said her grandmother. “It is a concert, after all: it’s not a play.”

“The name don’t alter it.”

Seeing the temper she was in, I thought it best to say no more, but the old lady added, “It’s Mr. George’s last night. Dear, dear! how I’ll miss him!”

Susy turned quickly to the window. “Why does he follow such godless ways then?” she cried. She stood still a good while, and when she turned about her pale little face made my heart ache. “I’ll take home Mrs. Tyson’s dress now, grandmother,” she said, and went out of the room. I forgot to tell you Susy was a seamstress. Well, the bundle was large, and I offered to carry it for her, as the time for rehearsal did not come till noon. She crept alongside of me without a word, looking weak and done-out: she was always so busy and bright, it was the more noticeable. The house where the dress was to go was one of the largest in the town. The servant showed us into a back parlour, and took the dress up to her mistress. I looked around me a good deal, for I’d never been in such a house before; but very soon I