Having thrown the responsibility of rescuing these unfortunates, who were perfectly self-satisfied, upon their Maker, little Anne turned with zest to the stage. The curtain was slowly rising upon a peaceful river, flowing between its banks under a marvellous effect of sunrise. The scene struck little Anne as familiar. “It looks just like Cleavedge river, only I’m never out at sunrise,” she said. “Mr. Wilberforce made the sketch; it is our river, Anne,” said Richard. He forgot his misfortune and leaned forward as if he might see the heroine’s entrance. She emerged from the rosy mists that enveloped her, a beautiful, effective entrance for the character that was to embody youth, purity, and self-forgetful love. The audience applauded, but was quickly silent, for the girl was speaking the lovely opening lines which embodied the aim of the play. From this moment there was complete quiet over the house, the absence of those fidgeting movements which reveal a lack of interest; the silence was far higher praise than applause could be. Yet applause followed on the first curtain fall, calling it up again and yet again, and cries of “Author!” began to arise here and there, though the time for them had not come. Visiting set in when the plaudits ceased. People streamed out into the lobby, men came and hung over the orchestra chairs in which sat the ladies who had so afflicted little Anne. Richard Latham’s box was besieged by acquaintances and newspaper men in search of first-hand information as to how he had come to write “The Guerdon,” what his idea was in producing a play so unlike the usual thing, what he should write next, and all the other big-little facts demanded by the public, which rightly sees biography as supremely important. Ted Wilberforce had carried little Anne out to walk in the lobby, lifting her over the crowd. “I’m afraid,” she said, seriously, as he set her down, “that people will not know that I was eight last month. It makes you look even less’n seven to be carried. But I thank you just the same, Mr. Wilberforce, and it’s nice to walk the kinks out, and a box is quite warm, though, of course, it sounds so.” The curtain rose on the second act with everyone back in his seat. That alone proved how the play was taking. This act closed on a peculiarly silent house. There were handkerchiefs fluttering against eyes which were not accustomed to moisten over sentiment so simple, so denuded of all but a direct appeal to the finest human ideals. “The Guerdon” voiced this appeal without much supplementary stage craft. The acting was perfect. This time with calls for the author came calls for the three principal actors. “Oh, if I could see them! They speak the lines as if they were inspired!” sighed Richard, permitting himself to bemoan his blindness. But he did not respond to the calls for a speech from him.