We have followed them thus far, but now, in telling an odd incident of this little journey, we take leave. One evening, at supper, some active bodies at the house busied themselves in getting up an expedition to the village. There was to be a “show” in the village hall. These things were said to be great fun, and Margaret and Halloran were in the first wagon that went down. A band of broken-down actors, the latest coon songs, an elaborate silver table set to be raffled off--a number being given with each and every ticket sold to the performance--these were the attractions. It was hinted that the same silver set would probably figure again in other years; for the raffle included all the towns along the railroad, and the winning ticket seemed always to be held in some other town. But the natives of the mountains were always glad to be swindled, and silverware was not to be resisted. Small farmers, who build shingled bay windows and buy cabinet organs before the rear of the house is boarded up, fall an easy prey to these allurements. So the hall was crowded, and the party found some difficulty in getting seats. At length the cracked piano began to jingle.. The janitor lighted the lamps that served for footlights, and a voice, somewhere behind the curtain, was heard singing. The giggling, chatting audience was hushed. The kerosene lamps smoked and flickered unheeded. A village aristocrat, daughter of the general storekeeper, with her gum-chewing escort, sat next to Halloran, rapt with expectancy. The voice swelled out louder and louder, as it approached the refrain. Margaret, finding the audience more odorous and less picturesque than she had looked for, turned to suggest an early departure, and was surprised to see her husband leaning forward, his hands on the back of the chair in front, his eyes fixed on the stage. There were signs that the curtain was to be drawn; and as the voice swung into the refrain, “For Golden-haired Mary, dee-doodle-dee-fairy, dee-iddle-dee airy, ta-raddle-my-own,” the singer was disclosed, a long-legged black-face comedian, in a gorgeous, if shabby, cake-walk costume. Halloran muttered, “Well, I'm blest!” “What is it, John?” she whispered. “Don't you know him? It's Apples!” Sure enough, Le Duc, after a vain chase for the gold that glitters above the corn-pit on the Board of Trade, had returned to the path that leads to Shakespeare. The Bard was not quite within hail, to be sure, for Apples had lost his place in the line and must begin farther back than ever, but the road was still there. As they watched and listened, a woman, also in black-face, joined the comedian; and they recognized his wife.