“The revival of an ancient burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last night was without any noteworthy feature save the pitiful performance of the part of Mephisto by a doleful gentleman named Thomas Mogley, who showed not the faintest of humour and who was tremendously guyed by a turbulent audience. Mr. Mogley was temporarily taking the place of William Renshaw, a funmaker of more advanced methods, who will appear in the rôle to-night. There are some pretty girls and agile dancers in the company.” Which the dramatic editor changed to read as follows: “The revival of a familiar burlesque on 'Faust' at the ---- Theatre last night was distinguished by a decidedly novel and original embodiment of Mephisto by Thomas Mogley, a trained and painstaking comedian. His performance created an abundance of merriment, and it was the manifest thought of the audience that a new type of burlesque comedian had been discovered.” All of which was literally true. And the dramatic editor laughed over it later over his bottle of white label at the club. By what power Mrs. Mogley managed to keep alive until morning I do not know. The dull gray light was stealing into the little room through the window as Mogley, leaning over the bed, held a fresh newspaper close to her face. Her head was propped up by means of pillows. She laughed through her tears. Her face was all gladness. “A new--comedian--discovered,” she repeated. “Ah, Tom, at last! That is what I lived for! I can die happy now. We've made a--great--hit--Tom--” The voice ceased. There was a convulsion at her throat. Nothing stirred in the room. From the street below came the sound of a passing car and a boy's voice, “Morning papers.” Mogley was weeping. The dead woman's hand clutched the paper. Her face wore a smile. V. -- OUT OF HIS PAST This is no fable; it is the hardest kind of fact. I met Craddock not more than a week ago. His inebriety prevented his recognizing me. What a joyous, hopeful man he was upon the day of his marriage! He looked toward the future as upon a cloudless spring dawn one looks forward to the day. He had sown his wild oats and had already reaped a crop of knowledge. “I have put the past behind me,” he said. And he thought it would stay there. He married one of the sweetest and best of women. The match was an ideal one--exceptionally so. His wife's mother objected to it and moved away on account of it. “That's a detail,” said Craddock. There are details and details. The importance of any one of them depends on circumstances. Craddock had all the qualities and attributes requisite to make him a son-in-law to the liking of his mother-in-law--lack of money. So she went to live in Boston, maintained a chilly correspondence with her daughter, and bided her time.