Up one aisle and down the next—­velvet, satin, lace and broadcloth—­here the costume the great Canfield had worn in Richard III; there the little cocked hat and the slashed jerkin in which Maude Hammond, as Peterkins, winged her way to fame up through the hearts of a million children whose ages ranged from seven to seventy.  Brocades and ginghams; tailor suits and peignoirs; puffed sleeves and tight—­dramatic history, all, they spelled failure, success, hope, despair, vanity, pride, triumph, decay.  Tragic ghosts, over which Josie Fifer held grim sway!

Have I told you that Josie Fifer, moving nimbly about the great storehouse, limped as she went?  The left leg swung as a normal leg should.  The right followed haltingly, sagging at hip and knee.  And that brings us back to the reason for her being where she was.  And what.

The story of how Josie Fifer came to be mistress of the cast-off robes of the firm of Hahn & Lohman is one of those stage tragedies that never have a public performance.  Josie had been one of those little girls who speak pieces at chicken-pie suppers held in the basement of the Presbyterian church.  Her mother had been a silly, idle woman addicted to mother hubbards and paper-backed novels about the house.  Her one passion was the theatre, a passion that had very scant opportunity for feeding in Wapello, Iowa.  Josie’s piece-speaking talent was evidently a direct inheritance.  Some might call it a taint.

Two days before one of Josie’s public appearances her mother would twist the child’s hair into innumerable rag curlers that stood out in grotesque, Topsy-like bumps all over her fair head.  On the eventful evening each rag chrysalis would burst into a full-blown butterfly curl.  In a pale-blue, lace-fretted dress over a pale-blue slip, made in what her mother called “Empire style,” Josie would deliver herself of “Entertaining Big Sister’s Beau” and other sophisticated classics with an incredible ease and absence of embarrassment.  It wasn’t a definite boldness in her.  She merely liked standing there before all those people, in her blue dress and her toe slippers, speaking her pieces with enhancing gestures taught her by her mother in innumerable rehearsals.

Any one who has ever lived in Wapello, Iowa, or its equivalent, remembers the old opera house on the corner of Main and Elm, with Schroeder’s drug store occupying the first floor.  Opera never came within three hundred miles of Wapello, unless it was the so-called comic kind.  It was before the day of the ubiquitous moving-picture theatre that has since been the undoing of the one-night stand and the ten-twenty-thirty stock company.  The old red-brick opera house furnished unlimited thrills for Josie and her mother.  From the time Josie was seven she was taken to see whatever Wapello was offered in the way of the drama.  That consisted mostly of plays of the tell-me-more-about-me-mother type.