Lemoyne was a good town, situated on the river, prosperous, sizable.
Julie lay on her bed in her darkened room, refusing all offers of aid. She did not want food. She did not want cold compresses on her head. She did not want hot compresses on her head. She wanted to be left alone—with Steve. Together the two stayed in the darkened room, and when some member of the company came to the door with offers of aid or comfort, there came into their faces a look that was strangely like one of fear, followed immediately by a look of relief.
Queenie sent Jo to the door with soup, her panacea for all ailments, whether of the flesh or the spirit. Julie made a show of eating 1t, but when Jo had clumped across the stage and down to his kitchen Julie motioned to Steve. He threw the contents of the bowl out of the window into the yellow waters of the Mississippi.
Doc appeared at Julie's door for the tenth time though it was only mid-morning. "Think you can play all right, to-night, though, don't you, Julie?"
In the semi-darkness of her shaded room Julie's eyes glowed suddenly wide and luminous. She sat up in bed, pushing her hair back from her forehead with a gesture so wild as to startle the old trouper.
"No!" she cried, in a sort of terror. "No! I can't play to-night. Don't ask me."
Blank astonishment made Doc's face almost ludicrous. For an actress to announce ten hours before the time set for the curtain's rising that she would not be able to go on that evening—an actress who had not
