portrayal meant. In voice, manner, action, in each minute detail of
face and figure, she was truly the very woman she represented. It was
an art so fine as to make the auditors forget the artist, forget even
themselves. Her perfect workmanship, clear-cut, rounded, complete,
stood forth like a delicate cameo beside the rude buffoonery of T.
Macready Lane, the coarse villany of Albrecht, and the stiff mannerisms
of the remainder of the cast. They were automatons as compared with a
figure instinct with life animated by intelligence. She seemed to
redeem the common clay of the coarse, unnatural story, and give to it
some vital excuse for existence, the howls of laughter greeting the
cheap wit of the comedian changed to a sudden hush of expectancy at her
mere entrance upon the stage, while her slightest word, or action,
riveted the attention. It was a triumph beyond applause, beyond any
mere outward demonstration of approval. Winston felt the spell deeply,
his entire body thrilling to her marvellous delineation of this common
thing, her uplifting of it out of the vile ruck of its surroundings and
giving unto it the abundant life of her own interpretation. Never once
did he question the real although untrained genius back of those
glowing eyes, that expressive face, those sincere, quiet tones which so
touched and swayed the heart. In other days he had seen the stage at
its best, and now he recognized in this woman that subtle power which
must conquer all things, and eventually "arrive."

Early the following morning, tossing uneasily upon a hard cot-bed in
the next town listed in their itinerary, he discovered himself totally
unable to divorce this memory from his thoughts. She even mingled with
his dreams,--a rounded, girlish figure, her young face glowing with the
emotions dominating her, her dark eyes grave with thoughtfulness,--and
he awoke, at last, facing another day of servile toil, actually
rejoicing to remember that he was part of the "Heart of the World."