In the second act some one threw an apple at him. Mogley laboured zealously. The ribald gallery had often been his foe. Wait until such and such a scene! He would show them how a pupil of the old stock companies could play burlesque! Song and dance men from the varieties had too long enjoyed undisputed possession of that form of drama. But, one by one, he passed his opportunities without capturing the house. Nearer came the end of the piece. Slimmer grew his chance of making the longed-for impression. The derision of the audience increased. Now the gallery made comments upon his personal appearance. “He could get between raindrops,” yelled one, applying a recent speech of Edwin Stevens, the comic opera comedian. And at home Mogley's wife was dying--holding to life by sheer power of will, that she might rejoice with him over his triumph. Tears blinded his eyes. Even the other members of the company were laughing at his discomfiture. Only a little brunette in pink tights who played Siebel, and whom he had never met before, had a look of sympathy for him. “It's a tough audience. Don't mind them,” she whispered. Mogley has never seen or heard of the little brunette since. But he anticipates eventually to behold her ranking first after Alice among the angels of heaven. The curtain fell and Mogley, somewhat dazed in mind, mechanically removed his apparel, washed off his “make-up,” donned his worn street attire and his haughty demeanour, and started for home. Home! Behind him failure and derision. Before him, Alice, dying, waiting impatiently his return, the news of his triumph. “We won't need you to-morrow night, Mr. Mogley,” said the stage manager as he reached the stage door. “Mr. Hexter told me to pay you for to-night. Here's your money now.” Mogley took the envelope as in a dream, answered not a word, and hastened homeward. He thought only: “To tell her the truth will kill her at once.” Mrs. Mogley was awake and in a fever of anticipation when Mogley entered the little room. She was sitting up in bed, staring at him with shining eyes. “Well, how was it?” she asked, quickly. Mogley's face wore a look of jubilant joy. “Success!” he cried. “Tremendous hit! The house roared! Called before the curtain four times and had to make a speech!” Mogley's ecstasy was admirably simulated. It was a fine bit of acting. Never before or since did Mogley rise to such a height of dramatic illusion. “Ah, Tom, at last, at last! And, now, I must live till morning, to read about it in the papers!” Mogley's heart fell. If the papers would mention the performance at all, they would dismiss it in three or four lines, bestowing perhaps a word of ridicule upon him. She was sure to see one paper, the one that the landlady's daughter lent her every day. Mogley looked at the illuminated clock on the steeple across the way. A quarter to twelve.