He turned paler than his wife when he saw her lying on
the bed. She smiled through her tears,--a really heartrending smile.
"Yes, Tom, I've changed much since you left, and not for the better. I
don't know whether I can live out the season."
"Don't say that, Alice, for God's sake!"
"I would be resigned, Tom, if only--if only you would make a success before
I go."
"If only I could get the chance, Alice!"
As the days went by, Mrs. Mogley rapidly grew worse. She seemed to fail
perceptibly. But Mogley had to seek an engagement. They could not live on
nothing. Mrs. Jones would wait with the daily increasing board-bill, but
medicine required cash. Each evening, when Mogley returned from his tour of
the theatrical agencies of Fourteenth Street and of Broadway, the ill woman
put the question, almost before he opened the door:
"Anything yet?"
"Not yet. You see this is the bad part of the season. Ah, the profession is
overcrowded!"
But one Monday afternoon he rushed up the stairs, his face aglow. In the
dark, narrow hallway on the top floor he met the doctor.
"Mrs. Mogley has had a sudden turn for the worse," said the physician,
abruptly.
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