It was the first time and likewise it was every other time, including the _last_ time they so presumed. She listened in stony silence, and then with bitter pride and icy resentment in every look and word, she demanded: “What else shall my man do? Is it for the like of him to be pounding stone forever, and he the finest actor-man in all the world to-day?” Now Mrs. MacIlhenny was a Presbyterian of a blueness like unto indigo, and of a narrowness inconceivable--who have never in her life entered a theatre. Therefore it was but natural that one of the surprised women should ask: “But how do you know that?” And she made answer--oh! loving, loyal, old Scottish wife--with withering scorn and infinite conviction: “Why, has the man na’ telled me so hissel’?” and so went her hard way. For many weeks MacIlhenny had made the manager’s life a burden to him--asking, praying, demanding an engagement. “Why, man,” he would say, “did you not see the public at my very feet--did you not hear their acclamations, and you know right well that in the absence of garlands and flowers they would have tossed to me anything their hands came upon? What are you afraid of? The enmity of your wee bit stars! I’ll see that you suffer no loss!” Then steady disappointment told upon him. His temper began to change--he grew sullen, suspicious, and began to tell strange tales of being followed at night by certain actors--generally stars. No man could call Sandy MacIlhenny a sponge or beat. When he reached the point where he could not extend a general invitation to those present to drink--he ceased to share in the general invitations of others. And when he could no longer pay his own footing, he no longer entered the saloon, but loitered outside to talk to the actors. Imagining things were not well with him, the actor for whom MacIlhenny had read asked him to accept some payment, but with ever-ready quotation, Sandy refused, gravely repeating: “There’s none can truly say he gives--if he receives!” Then even the outside visits grew far apart, and through my passing of his door I was the only one who knew anything of him, and I knew so little, dear Heaven! so little! Only that he studied, rehearsed, declaimed! I did not know how many, _many_ days passed without bringing Mrs. Sandy any job of work, and their pride-sealed lips made no complaint. The old Scotch couple were not unlike a pair of sharp, old razors--perfectly harmless if left alone in their own case, but very unsafe things for general handling--and so in the midst of plenty, they suffered the pangs--the gnawing pangs--of hunger for weary days and wearier nights, and no one knew!