The kind little comedian rushed about the stage, making a fire, putting on the tea kettle and stumbling over his own feet in an effort to be useful.
"Now, all the others will enter in a minute," whispered Grace disgustedly, "and she'll never get it at all." Just then Anne turned on her pillow and opened her eyes.

They looked straight at David, who was sitting in the front of the box.

He pointed deliberately at the chrysanthemum.
"She sees it," said Jessica, for Anne's eyes were now fixed on the flower.
When the kind Irishman departed to spend his last cent on medicine and food for the dying girl, she rose, staggered across the stage, seized the chrysanthemum and rushed back again, just in time to be lying prone when her father entered, now a repentant and sorrowful sinner.
"It's all right," whispered Grace in a relieved tone.

"I feel sure that the plan will work to perfection." Anne _did_ die a stage death, and there was not a dry eye in the house when she forgave her father, bade farewell to the entire company, who had now gathered in the attic, and her soul passed out to soft music while the lights were turned very low.
"Fire! Fire!" rang out a voice from the darkened house.
Where did the voice come from?
Nora and Jessica were so startled they could only clutch each other and wonder, while Grace whispered: "Don't move from your seats." "Grace, was that your voice ?" whispered David, who had joined the girls during the death-bed scene.
But Grace made no reply.

She only put her finger to her lips as she held his arm with a detaining hand.
There was a panic in the house.