My wages were small, and I saved every possible penny; I gave up smoking, slept in the stable, and rarely paid more than fifteen cents for a meal. In my mind I settled upon the island of Vancouver, and I resolved to go as soon as I could save money enough to buy a suit of clothes and a railway ticket to Seattle. And from my exile I would dare write to the Senator. "Why not now?" I thought as I sat on my cab. "But he might believe the story set up by circumstances; he might long ago have condemned me as guilty of Estell's blood. And what must she think?" The beginning of my musings mattered not, for the end was always the same, with the woman. And in the night, when the fierce wind howled about the barn, with the stamping and snorting of horses beneath me, I lay in the dark and the cold, and gazed into my heart's illuminated memory. Her face was always frank and, though her lips were dumb, her eyes were full of whispers. "But what must she think now?" always came to drive her away into the dark and the cold.

In impatience, and sometimes in fear, I watched the slow growth of my savings. Once a man, a detective I was sure, came to the stable to ask, he said, concerning a woman whom I had that day driven to a railway station. He may have told the truth, but he put me in distress, and the next day when I counted my money I said, "I will go to-morrow." But on that day a paragraph leaped out of a newspaper and smote me. "In Magnolia Land" was soon to be produced at McVicker's Theatre. I had cause to believe that I was suspected of at least some sort of crookedness, since in my mind it was almost settled that the man had come to the stable to look me over in the hope of finding a "bargain," but I was resolved to take the risk to see the play. And I read the newspapers at night and at morning, nervous with the fear of finding an announcement that the drama was the work of a man now charged with the murder of Mississippi's Treasurer. As the time drew near the press agent multiplied his licks; the play was by a man who chose to call himself "The Elephant;" it had been read by "several of our leading dramatists and pronounced a masterpiece of originality, character, and strength." But to me the faith of Manager Maffet did not hold the piece above an ordinary experiment, a truth set forth by the meagerness of his "paper;" and, as nothing was said of the cast, I knew that my lines were not to be given over to well-known "people."

Would the day, which had sounded so near, never come! "Who are you?" a snail inquired of a wild pigeon. "I am Time," the pigeon answered. "No," said the snail. "You may have been Time and you may be again, some day, but I am Time now."

In the evening I drove a drunken man to his home, four miles on the North Side, and when I helped him out in front of his door, he tried to hold me, to tell me that I was his friend, but I broke loose from him, and almost furiously I drove to the theatre. I had not time to go to the stable; I hired a boy to look after my horse, and hastened to buy a balcony ticket. The night was warm for the time of the year, but a threat of rain was in the air, and I was afraid that the house would be small, but the people kept sprinkling in, and I stood in a corner to watch them, uneasy and annoyed whenever anyone passed along, without even looking in toward the box office. The orchestra began with Dixie, and my blood tingled as I went up the stairs. Viewed from my seat, the lower part of the house appeared to be well filled and the balcony was crowded. I had not taken account of those who had gone in before I arrived. No program had been given to me and I was almost afraid to ask for one. I did not permit myself to speculate upon my misfortune, an outcast sneaking in to see his own play; I did not muse upon fate; I sat there with my pulse beating fast. But I did indulge the comfort of the thought that should the play prove a failure no one could discover the humiliation of the author.

The music ceased, the curtain went up, my heart leaped, and the soft beauty of the scene brought tears to my eyes. Could I believe it, there were Culpepper and Miss Hatch, their mouths full of "The Elephant's" words. A droll line, and the people laughed; a sentiment, and they applauded. So the ice was broken. The curtain went down with generous applause. Culpepper and Miss Hatch were called out; but I could hardly see them, for the foolish tears in my eyes. I knew that the acts to come were better and my heart swelled with the thought. There were many faults, of course, but good humor and enthusiasm do not hunt for flaws, and I laughed and cried and yearned to grasp the hand of a friend.

"What do you think of it?" I asked of a rough man who sat beside me.

"Great," he answered.

"Would you mind shaking hands with me?"

"I don't know you," he replied, "but I'm a good ways from home, and we'll call it a go. Put her there."

He thrust forth his hand. I grasped it and pressed it hard—the first I had touched in sentiment for many a day; and I was loth to let it go, but he was forbearing. "Shake again whenever you want to," he said. "A man that cries at a putty thing ain't a bad feller."

At the end of the third act there was a roar for the author, and at that moment I felt almost willing to risk my neck to thank those generous hearts.

It was over—and the great organ lifted its voice in triumph as the audience arose. But if I strode out with the tread of a conqueror, it was not unmixed with a sorrowful limp, the halting walk of one who sees the black word "bitterness" written upon the bright banner of his victory. A cold rain was falling. I stood against the wall to catch the echo of my achievement, the "good," "enjoyed it so much," "beautiful," of the hastening throng. The loud cab-calls ceased, and I stepped forward to drive my vehicle to the stable, when, glancing back, I saw something that almost wrung a cry from my heart. Beneath the awning stood the Senator and his daughter. I ran to my cab, threw money to the boy, seized the horse by the bridle, led him to the curb in front of the Senator, and bowing under the glistening drip I said, "Cab, Sir?"

"Yes, I think so," he replied. "We haven't far to go, just around yonder to the Great Northern Hotel. Let me help you in, Florence. I reckon they are right in saying that this place has about the worst climate in the world."

I held the door open until they were seated, and stood there in a tremble after I had closed it, yearning to make myself known to them. But the success of the play could not mean that I was innocent of an old man's death. They might never have believed me guilty. "I could throw myself upon their mercy," I mused. "But what if they should turn away with a cold word and a shudder?" Reason is the offspring of wisdom, but it has always been a coward.

"What are you waiting for?" the Senator inquired, with a tap on the window. "Drive on, please."

I mounted, not trusting myself to speak, and drove slowly away, with my eager ear bent low.

"Never saw anything like that play," said the Senator, "never did. But I tell you I was scared at first. Why, when that fellow Bugg Peters came out there I thought surely he would ruin the whole thing. And he was Bugg, up and up. Yes, thought he would spoil it all. Why, Florence, that fellow is the biggest liar on the earth!"

"But he is art, as we saw him to-night, Father."

"Well, yes. He said the very things that Bugg would have said. Yes, art all right enough, but whenever he is, art has turned out to be a monstrous liar. It does seem to me, however, that Bolanyo could have furnished a batch of more respectable characters—more representative, don't you understand—people of better standing. Washington is all right, an advancement, a high type of his race, but the pilot and the shoemaker are—oh, well, they don't represent us. And that old woman's meant for your Aunt Patsey as sure as you live. But in spite of these minor faults it is a beautiful play."

"I wonder," she said, after a moment of silence, "I wonder where Mr. Belford is to-night; if he could only have seen his victory; if—"

"Say, there, driver," the Senator cried, "why don't you go ahead? What do you want to halt along here for? I don't want to hurt your feelings, you understand, but I could have more than walked there by this time. Drive up, please."

We were now near the hotel. I drew up at the curb, jumped down and opened the cab door. The Senator got out. I did not look at him. I did not dare to feed my hungry eyes upon her face. He took her hand, and when she had stepped upon the pavement, she turned about. "Oh, wait a moment," she said, "my dress is caught. No, it isn't."

"I will settle with you in a moment," he remarked, looking back at me, as with haste, though with most gallant gentleness, he urged his daughter toward the door, out of the rain. I looked hard at her now, with my heart full of another night, when she had glanced back at me; I waited, gazing, enchained by her grace, until she reached the door, and then I sprung upon the cab and drove away. The Senator shouted, but I did not look around, until, turning a corner, I glanced back, to see him standing bare-headed in the rain, waving his hat at me.