“I didn't write you about it, old fellow,” he said, as we crossed on the ferry. “My time comes in a month. Everything is in shape for the production—scenery painted and costumes made. I've hung around for three years, but my day has come at last!” He took my congratulations with the graciousness that was characteristic of him. “It isn't unmitigated bliss,” he remarked. “I have had to all but ruin the piece to get it on. I guess it will pass muster and that's all I care for now. Three years such as I have spent are warranted to take the pride out of any man's soul.” Lightly as he spoke, I knew he was staking all his future on the event. “Drop in for the first night,” he said, as he left me at my lodgings. “I want your opinion. I have great faith in your judgment,” he added politely. I knew he hadn't, but he was invariably kind, even at the expense of truth. During the month, the last one of waiting, I saw him frequently. The many interests relating to the presentation went forward with unexpected smoothness, and there was but one drop of bitterness in Gavan's cup. His mother was unwell. He had observed a decided change in the tone of her letters, something that was deeper than mere sorrow at his absence. One of his relatives (for like a true Southerner he had a surpassingly large number of them) had written that it was his duty to come home at his earliest possible convenience. When Gavan told me this, he said: “And it's the truth; I have been away a long while. Once the first night's over with, I turn my back on New York. My mother needs me.” I could see that he was very much exercised about his mother's condition. “You know she may be a lot worse than they say. I have no idea that they would go into detail even if it were a serious matter, and mother herself would be the last person in the world to expect information of that sort from.” The eventful night came. I was late, having been detained at my office, and the first act was ended when I reached the theater, but I was in time to see Gavan bow his thanks to those in front from the stage. This I saw through the blur of lights and the mist that swam before my eyes. The curtain had gone down on the last act when I made my way around back and joined him. “Come,” he said, as I took his hand. “Come, let's go home. I am tired—and I am satisfied.” He was silent until we reached his door. “Come in,—don't leave me yet.” And I followed him up to his room. He had again relapsed into silence, but I could see that he was happy. Finally he roused himself from his reverie to say: “You don't mind if I go to bed, do you?—and stay a little longer; I want to talk to you. It's such a comfort to have you here.” I said I would stay all night if he desired it. I was too excited to sleep. He was soon in bed, and I drew up a chair close beside him.