out of it. "Good-by, then," he said.

"Good-by, sir," they both chorussed. And Marion cried after
him, "And thank you a thousand times."

He turned again and looked back at them, but in their rejoicing
they had already forgotten him. "Bless you, my children," he
said, smiling. As he was about to close the door a young girl
came down the passage toward it, and as she was apparently going
to Carroll's rooms, the actor left the door open behind him.

Neither Marion nor Carroll had noticed his final exit. They were
both gazing at each other as though, could they find speech, they
would ask if it were true.

"It's come at last, Marion," Philip said, with an uncertain
voice.

"I could weep," cried Marion. " Philip," she exclaimed, "I would
rather see that play succeed than any play ever written, and I
would rather play that part in it than--Oh, Philip," she ended.
"I'm so proud of you!" and rising, she threw her arms about his
neck and sobbed on his shoulder.

Carroll raised one of her hands and kissed the tips of her
fingers gently. "I owe it to you, Marion," he said--"all to
you."

This was the tableau that was presented through the open door to
Miss Helen Cabot, hurrying on her errand of restitution and good-