face haunted him. In vain he repeated to himself: "Tut, it will soon
pass--only a girl's first fancy."

But Sophy does not come back to Waife's room when the Morleys have left
it: Waife creeps into her room as before, and, as before, there she sits
still as if in slumber. She comes in, however, of her own accord, to
assist, as usual, in the meal which he takes apart in his room helps
him--helps herself, but eats nothing. She talks, however, almost gaily;
hopes he will be well enough to leave the next day; wonders whether
Sir Isaac has missed them very much; reads to him Lady Montfort's
affectionate letter to herself; and when dinner is over, and Waife's
chair drawn to the fireside, she takes her old habitual place on
the stool beside him, and says: "Now, dear grandfather--all about
yourself--what happy thing has chanced to you?"

Alas! poor Waife has but little heart to speak; but he forces himself;
what he has to say may do good to her.

"You know that, on my own account, I had reasons for secresy--change of
name. I shunned all those whom I had ever known in former days; could
take no calling in life by which I might be recognised; deemed it a
blessed mercy of Providence that when, not able to resist offers that
would have enabled me to provide for you as I never otherwise could, I
assented to hazard an engagement at a London theatre--trusting for my
incognito to an actor's arts of disguise--came the accident which, of
itself, annihilated the temptation into which I had suffered myself to
be led. For, ah, child! had it been known who and what was the William
Waife whose stage-mime tricks moved harmless mirth, or tears as
pleasant, the audience would have risen, not to applaud, but hoot,
'Off, off,' from both worlds--the Mimic as the Real! Well, had I been
dishonest, you--you alone felt that I could not have dared to take
you, guiltless infant, by the hand. You remember that, on my return
to Rugge's wandering theatre, bringing you with me, I exaggerated the
effects of my accident--affected to have lost voice--stipulated to be
spared appearing on his stage. That was not the mere pride of manhood
shrinking from the display of physical afflictions. No. In the first
village that we arrived at, I recognised an old friend, and I saw that,
in spite of time, and the accident that had disfigured me, he recognised
me, and turned away his face, as if in loathing. An old friend,
Sophy--an old friend! Oh, it pierced me to the hea