for ever so long; but to-night he was on the stage, the real
stage--real, at all events, for him, for Mike could never be an
amateur. Esther's eyes filled with glad tears as the well-loved little
figure popped in, with a baker's paper hat on his head, and delivered
the absurd words; and if you had looked at Henry's face too, you would
have been at a loss to know which loved the little pastry-cook's
boy best.

When Mike returned to his dressing-room, a mysterious box was awaiting
him. He opened it, and found Esther's wreath and Henry's sonnet.

"God bless them," he said.

No doubt it was very childish and sentimental, and old-fashioned; but
these young people certainly loved each other.

As Mike had left the stage, Henry had turned round and smiled at some
one a few seats away. Esther had noticed him, and looked in the same
direction.

"Who was that you bowed to, Henry?"

"I'll tell you another time," he said; for he had a good deal to tell
her about Angel Flower.




CHAPTER XXIII