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“But this is what I really came to bring you,” said the actress, presently, laying a score or more of newspaper clippings on the bed. “You see you are famous! I had my press-agent watch for these, and they’re coming in at a great rate every mail. You see, here’s a nattering likeness of you in a New York daily, and here you are again, in a Chicago paper!”

“Those aren’t of ME,” said Marian, smiling.

“It SAYS they are,” Julie said. “One says you are petite and dark, and the other that you are a blond Gibson type. You wouldn’t have believed that your wish could come true so quickly, would you, just the other day?”

“My wish?” stammered the girl.

“Yes. Don’t you remember saying that you wished you could do something big?” pursued Julie. “You’ve done a thing that makes the rest of us feel pretty small, you know. Why, while there was any question of your getting better, there wasn’t a dance given at any of the hotels between here and Surf Point, and all sorts of people came here with inquiries every day. This place was absolutely hushed. The maids used to fight for the privilege of carrying your trays up. None of us thought of anything but ‘How is Miss Carter?’ And you’ll be ‘The young lady who saved those children from the fire’ for the rest of your life wherever you go!”

Miss Carter was watching her gravely.

“You say I got my wish,” she said now, her blue eyes brimming with slow tears, and her lips trembling. “But–but–you see how I AM, Miss Ives! Dr. Arbuthnot says I MAY be able to walk in a month or two, but no swimming or riding or dancing for years–perhaps never. And my face–it’ll always be scarred.”

Julie laid a gentle hand on the little helpless fingers.

“But that’s part of the process, you know, little girl,” said the actress after a little silence. “I pay one way, perhaps, and you pay another, but we both pay. Don’t you suppose,” a smile broke through the seriousness of her face, “don’t you suppose I have my scars, too?”

Marian dried her eyes. “Scars?”

“When you are pointed out–as you WILL be, wherever you go–” said Julie, “you’ll think to yourself, ‘Ah, yes, this is very lovely and very flattering, but I’ll never dance again–I’ll never rush into the waves again, I’ll never spend a whole morning on the tennis court,’ won’t you?”

The Dancing Girl nodded, her eyes filling again, her lips trembling.

“And when people stare after me and follow me,” said Julie, “I think to myself–‘Oh, this is very flattering, very delightful–but the young years are gone–the mother who missed me and longed for me is gone–the little sisters are married, and deep in happy family cares–they don’t need me any more.’ I have what I wanted, but I’ve paid the price! In a life like mine there’s no room for the normal, wonderful ties of a home and children. Never–” she put her head back against her chair and shut her eyes–“never that happiness for me!” She finished, her voice lowered and carefully controlled.

They were both silent awhile. Then Marian stirred her helpless fingers just enough to deepen their light pressure on Julie’s own.

“Thank you,” she said shyly. “I see now. I think I begin to understand.”