spells of tears and laughter.

It was not until the first satisfying act was over that Jean drew a
long breath and looked about her.

The house was packed. The old theater with its painted curtain had
nothing modern to recommend it. But to Jean's mind it could not have
been improved. She wanted not one thing changed. For years and years
she had sat in her favorite seat in the seventh row of the parquet and
had loved the golden proscenium arch, the painted goddesses, the red
velvet hangings--she had thrilled to the voice and gesture of the
artists who had played to please her. There had been "Wang" and "The
Wizard of Oz"; "Robin Hood"; the tall comedian of "Casey at the Bat";
the short comedian who had danced to fame on his crooked legs; Mrs.
Fiske, most incomparable Becky; Mansfield, Sothern--some of them, alas,
already gods of yesterday!

At first there had been matinées with her mother--"The Little
Princess," over whose sorrows she had wept in the harrowing first act,
having to be consoled with chocolates and the promise of brighter
things as the play progressed.

Now and then she had come with Hilda. But never when she could help
it. "I'd rather stay at home," she had told her father.

"But--why--?"

"Because she laughs in the wrong places."

Her father never laughed in the wrong places, and he squeezed her hand