"Well, my land! To look at you a person would think you'd been losing
money at the box office every night it ran."

The look was still on her face when Monday morning came. She was sewing
on a dress just discarded by Adelaide French, the tragédienne.
Adelaide's maid was said to be the hardest-worked woman in the
profession. When French finished with a costume it was useless as a
dress; but it was something historic, like a torn and tattered battle
flag--an emblem.

McCabe, box under his arm, stood in the doorway. Josie Fifer stood up so
suddenly that the dress on her lap fell to the floor. She stepped over
it heedlessly, and went toward McCabe, her eyes on the pasteboard box.
Behind McCabe stood two more men, likewise box-laden.

"Put them down here," said Josie. The men thumped the boxes down on the
long table. Josie's fingers were already at the strings. She opened the
first box, emptied its contents, tossed them aside, passed on to the
second. Her hands busied themselves among the silks and broadcloth of
this; then on to the third and last box. McCabe and his men, with
scenery and furniture still to unload and store, turned to go. Their
footsteps echoed hollowly as they clattered down the worn old stairway.
Josie snapped the cord that bound the third box. Her cheeks were
flushed, her eyes bright. She turned it upside down. Then she pawed it
over. Then she went back to the contents of the first two boxes, clawing
about among the limp garments with which the table was strewn. She was
breathing quickly. Suddenly: "It isn't here!" she cried. "It isn't
here!" She turned and flew to the stairway. The voices of the men came
up to her. She leaned far over the railing. "McCabe! McCabe!"