Let that tired, worried look come into your face,--the load's dropping on to your shoulders again,--that kind of dope.

Get me ?" Jean in the loge remembered how she had been told to do this deliberately, just out of her imagination.

And then she saw how Jean on the screen came whistling up to the house, swinging her quirt by its loop and with a spring in her walk, and making you feel that it was a beautiful day and that all the meadow larks were singing, and that she had just had a gallop on Pard that made her forget that she ever looked trouble in the face.
Then Jean in the loge looked and saw screen--Jean's mother kneeling before Bob's chair and sobbing so that her shoulders shook.

She looked and saw screen Jean stop whistling and swinging her quirt; saw her stand still in the path and listen; saw the smile fade out of her eyes.
Jean in the loge thought suddenly of that moment when she had looked at dad coming in where she waited, and swallowed a lump in her throat.

A woman near her gave a little stifled sob of sympathy when screen-Jean turned and went softly around the corner of the house with all the light gone from her face and all the spring gone out of her walk.
Jean in the loge gave a sigh of relaxed tension and looked around her.
The seats were nearly all full, and every one was gazing fixedly forward, lost in the pictured story of Jean on the screen.