fenced round with boxes and
crates, and containing the manager's desk and two stools.

"Sophy," then said Mrs. Crane, "you say you will not act unless your
grandfather be with you. Now, hear me. You know that I have been always
stern and hard with you. I never professed to love you,--nor do I. But
you have not found me untruthful. When I say a thing seriously, as I am
speaking now, you may believe me. Act to-night, and I will promise you
faithfully that I will either bring your grandfather here, or I will
order it so that you shall be restored to him. If you refuse, I make no
threat, but I shall leave this place; and my belief is that you will be
your grandfather's death."

"His death! his death! I!"

"By first dying yourself. Oh, you smile; you think it would be happiness
to die. What matter that the old man you profess to care for is
broken-hearted! Brat, leave selfishness to boys: you are a girl!
suffer!"

"Selfish!" murmured Sophy, "selfish! that was said of me before.
Selfish! ah, I understand. No, I ought not to wish to die: what would
become of him?" She fell on her knees, and raising both her clasped
hands, prayed inly, silently, an instant, not more. She rose. "If I do
act, then,--it is a promise: you will keep it. I shall see him: he shall
know where I am; we shall meet!"

"A promise,--sacred. I will keep it. Oh, girl, how much you will love
some day! how your heart will ache! and when you are my age, look at
that heart, then at your glass; perhaps you may be, within and without,
like me."

Sophy, innocent Sophy, stared, awe-stricken, but uncomprehending; Mrs.
Crane led her back passive.

"There, she will act. Put on the wreath. Trick her out. Hark ye, Mr.
Rugge. This is for one night. I have made conditions with her: either
you must take back her grandfather, or--she must return to him."

"And my L100?"

"In the latter case ought to be repaid to you."

"Am I never to have the Royal York Theatre? Ambition of my life, ma'am.
Dreamed of it thrice! Ha! but she will act; and succeed. But to take
back the old vagabond,--a bitter pill. He shall halve it with me! Ma'am,
I'm your grateful--"

CHAPTER VI.

Threadbare is the simile which compares the world to a stage. Schiller,
less complimentary than Shakspeare, lowers the illustration from a stage
to a puppet-show. But ever between realities and shows there is a secret
communication, an undetected interchange,--sometimes a stern reality in
the