On the February day appointed for the Morning Glory theatricals, the sun shone brightly—all nature was the same, but in Manville the day seemed different. Expectancy was in the air, and suppressed excitement in the heads of those possessing a bit of yellow pasteboard that entitled them to admission to the "Big Show." The men paused often at their work to talk of the event, and the women, especially the members of the club, forgot their families, their housework—everything except the approaching event.

Early in the morning a half-dozen of the club-women were at the hall superintending the unloading and disposition of a load of furniture which had been collected from the homes of particularly enthusiastic members. This unavoidable inconvenience, which usually accompanies other preparations for amateur theatricals, was especially necessary in this case in order that the barren stage might be properly dressed, and the shabby scenery saved from loneliness. The whole club turned out in the afternoon, and the hall and stage became a scene of bustling, chattering confusion. As the crisis approached Miss Sawyer, as stage directress, failed in her attempts to control the situation, and Mrs. Tweedie, "the powerful," as she was now called by many, assumed command, and became more dignified and dictatorial than ever.

At six o'clock the stage was set for the first scene, and some of the ladies were nervously pacing the creaking boards, book in hand, muttering their lines, and gesticulating ridiculously in a final spasmodic effort. In a corner of the hall Miss Sawyer was murmuring to a bunch of withered flowers; in an anteroom Mrs. Stout was being coached by Mrs. Jones in the pronunciation of some difficult words, and in a corridor Mrs. Thornton was trying to console Mrs. Darling, whose costume had not arrived.

The doors were opened to the public at seven o'clock, with Ezra Tweedie on guard to take tickets, and his son Tommy to distribute programmes. Ezra was smilingly happy because it was the first time for years that he had been permitted to do anything in public. He would have missed this chance if Mrs. Tweedie could have arranged in any other way to keep in touch with the box office. The public was ready when the doors were opened, and charged unceremoniously upon Ezra, Tommy, and the lady ushers, with pinks in their hair, all of whom had more than they could properly do during the next hour. At eight o'clock the hall was filled with the "best" people in Manville, and some of the worst—worst, perhaps, only because they did not have the price of a seat in the front rows. The last person to enter was Sam Billings, who acted as though he did not care to have his presence known. Ezra scowled harmlessly as he took his ticket. Sam peeked cautiously into the hall, then turned to Ezra with a triumphant look and whispered: "Advertisin' pays, don't it?"

Twenty minutes after the time advertised for the performance to begin the audience was suddenly hushed to a funereal stillness by Mrs. Tweedie's two bells—she would have things shipshape, and succeeded, barring the orchestra, which had been found to be too expensive. The curtain was encouraged on its ascent by the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home," played on the piano by a Miss Bean, a member of Mr. Flint's church, who, in a spirit of fashionable recklessness in regard to her pastor's opinion, had consented to play. Despite the music, perhaps because of it, the curtain balked when half-way up, then stuck fast. While the cause of the trouble was being investigated, accompanied by the sound of hurrying footsteps and loud whispers from "behind the scenes," Miss Bean continued to play "My Old Kentucky Home." When she was approaching the end of the piece for the sixth time, the curtain was yanked up sufficiently for the audience to get a two-thirds view of the stage.

The curtain certainly acted badly, but it was a star in comparison with the majority of the performers. It was fully three minutes after the curtain was raised before Mrs. Stout, as the Duke in the trial scene from the "Merchant of Venice," entered, followed by her "soot" in single file. Ten minutes later everybody knew that those who had said that the people of Manville would not, or could not, appreciate Shakespeare, did not know what they were talking about.

The scene was a decided hit, and was talked about for years afterward as the funniest thing that ever happened in Manville.

The balcony scene, from "Romeo and Juliet," which followed, performed by Fanny Tweedie as Juliet, and Mrs. Darling, in a rainy-day skirt, as Romeo, was more like real acting. It was enjoyed by the audience, but not uproariously.

Then came the scene from the "Lady of Lyons" in which Pauline discovers that she is the victim of a trick. Fanny and Mrs. Blake played well, but Barbara's costume and her appearance caused a murmur of amazement. When she spoke, however, the pathos of the conscience-stricken lover rang so true that the gaping audience was instantly stilled. For the moment men and women alike were fascinated, though not many really approved, and for this there was little cause for wonder. Barbara's costume was new to Manville, and a surprise even to the club-women. As Fanny Tweedie had wished, it was "unexpected;" yet it was worn innocently and with pure thought, although that was something difficult for the narrow-minded to understand.

The closing feature of the entertainment was the production of Miss Sawyer's original play, "Yellow Roses" ("First time on any stage"), which withered and died a painless death.

The curtain fell—part way—at eleven-thirty, with the audience "all present."

Despite the contrariness of the curtain, the lapses of memory, the long waits, and the slowly taken cues, the people of Manville enjoyed the "Big Show."

When the audience had gone, Mrs. Stout, with wrinkled forehead, sat at a table counting the proceeds as best she could with some one asking every moment, "How much did we make?" Many of the ladies looked grave and were acting strangely. There was much whispering going on, but it ceased suddenly when Barbara and Fanny came from the dressing-room ready to go home.

"You're the star, Miss Wallace," called Mrs. Stout, when she saw them. Barbara stopped before her and smiled. "And your costume," she continued, "was just the sweetest I ever saw."

At that moment Mrs. Tweedie approached, her face showing intense anger.

"What are the receipts, Mrs. Stout?" she asked, sharply.

"I don't know yet," Mrs. Stout replied. "I was just tellin' Miss Wallace how much I liked her costume. Did you ever see anything just like it?"

"Never!" thundered Mrs. Tweedie.

"Why, didn't you think it was pretty?" asked Mrs. Stout, in surprise.

"It was indecent!" hissed Mrs. Tweedie, as she glared at Barbara.

Everybody was looking and listening, but, excepting Fanny, too astonished to speak.

"Mother, how can you!" she exclaimed, indignantly, but Mrs. Tweedie walked quickly into the dressing-room, and slammed the door.

"Well, of all the tigeresses!" gasped Mrs. Stout.

Barbara was stunned. Fanny led her from the building, and on the way home tried to make amends for her mother's anger. But Barbara understood—the consciousness of her mistake had come like a blow in the face. Oh, if Will were only here, she thought. He had written that he could not come to the performance, but had sent all sorts of good wishes for her success. She needed him now more than she had ever needed a friend before.

The Tweedie family, excepting Tommy, argued long and late that night concerning Barbara and her costume. Mrs. Tweedie was the minority, but she won, and her decision was that Barbara must quit their roof the next day.