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Updated: June 8, 2025
The big theater, the rows of smiling faces, the clapping hands surely they must have all been a dream? And Mr. Demry? Why had he sat on the steps and cried into a big starchy handkerchief? Oh, yes; she remembered now, but she didn't like to remember, so she hurried on.
If by any chance a wistful urchin arrived in his rags alone, Mr. Demry promptly evolved a cocked hat from a newspaper, and a sword from a box top, and transformed him into a prancing knight.
She dramatized her experiences at the factory; she gave a lively account of the doings of the Snawdor family; she wove tales of mystery around old Mr. Demry. She had the rare gift of enhancing every passing moment with something of importance and interest. Dan listened with the flattering homage a slow, taciturn nature often pays a quick, vivacious one.
Demry sighed heavily, opened his eyes with an effort and, looking past the bowed head beside him, held out a feeble hand for the flowers. "Listen, Mr. Demry," said Nance, breathlessly. "Here's a lady says she knows you. Somebody you haven't seen for a long, long time. Will you look at her and try to remember?"
But love had to do with sweethearts and dime novels and plays on the stage. How could God be that? Maybe it meant the kind of love Mr. Demry had for his little daughter, or the love that Dan had for his mother, or the love she had for the Snawdor baby that died. Maybe the love that was good was God, and the love that was bad was the devil, maybe
I would rather see you go back to the glass factory, bad as it is, than to go into the chorus." "But I do dance as good as some of the girls, don't I, Mr. Demry?" she teased, and Mr. Demry, whose pride in an old pupil was considerable, had to acknowledge that she did. Uncle Jed's attitude was scarcely more encouraging.
Nance was kneeling on the floor, tying a cord about her box when she heard steps on the stairs. "Uncle Jed?" she asked in alarm. "No. Just Snawdor. He won't ast no questions. He ain't got gumption enough to be curious." "I hate to go sneaking off like this without telling everybody good-by," said Nance petulantly, "Uncle Jed, and the children, and the Levinskis, and Mr. Demry, and and Dan."
Somebody's always falling out of the chorus, and if you keep up this practising with me, you'll be dancing as good as any of 'em. Ask old man Demry; he played in the orchestra last time we was at the Gaiety." But when Nance threw out a few cautious remarks to Mr. Demry, she met with prompt discouragement: "No, no, my dear child," he said uneasily. "You must put that idea out of your head.
Demry was not there, but in the parquet she encountered a pair of importunate eyes that set her pulses bounding. They sought her out in the subsequent chorus and followed her every movement in the grand march that followed. "Mr.
Nance would stand before the latter in adoring silence; then she would invariably say: "Go on an' tell me about her, Mr. Demry!" And standing behind her, with his fine sensitive hands on her shoulders, Mr. Demry would tell wonderful stories of the little girl who had once been his.
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