“He did, and spent it. I suppose the gentleman broke out in him as soon as he had money, and, ill though he was, the money went. Then it seems he had no help for it but to try and get back to Mr. Rugge. But Mr. Rugge was sore and spiteful at his leaving; for Rugge counted on him, and had even thought of taking the huge theatre at York, and bringing out Gentleman Waife as his trump card. But it warn’t fated, and Rugge thought himself ill-used, and so at first he would have nothing more to say to Waife. And truth is, what could the poor man do for Rugge? But then Waife produces little Sophy.” “You mean Juliet Araminta?” said Vance. “Same--in private life she be Sophy. And Waife taught her to act, and put together the plays for her. And Rugge caught at her; and she supports Waife with what she gets; for Rugge only gives him four shillings a week, and that goes on ‘baccy and such like.” “Such like--drink, I presume?” said Vance. “No--he don’t drink. But he do smoke, and he has little genteel ways with him, and four shillings goes on ‘em. And they have been about the country this spring, and done well, and now they be here. But Rugge behaves shocking hard to both on ‘em: and I don’t believe he has any right to her in law, as he pretends,--only a sort of understanding which she and her grandfather could break if they pleased; and that’s what they wish to do, and that’s why little Sophy wants the three pounds.” “How?” cried Lionel, eagerly. “If they had three pounds could they get away? and if they did, how could they live? Where could they go?” “That’s their secret. But I heard Waife say--the first night they came here--I that if he could get three pounds, he had hit on a plan to be independent like. I tell you what put his back up: it was Rugge insisting on his coming on the stage agin, for he did not like to be seen such a wreck. But he was forced to give in; and so he contrived to cut up that play-story, and appear hisself at the last without speaking.” “My good friend,” cried young Lionel, “we are greatly obliged to you for your story; and we should much like to see little Sophy and her grandfather at your house to-morrow,--can we?” “Certain sure you can, after the play’s over; to-night, if you like.” “No, to-morrow: you see my friend is impatient to get back now; we will call to-morrow.” “‘T is the last day of their stay,” said the Cobbler. “But you can’t be sure to see them safely at my house afore ten o’clock at night; and not a word to Rugge! mum!” “Not a word to Rugge,” returned Lionel; “good-night to you.” The young men left the Cobbler still seated on the milestone, gazing on the stars and ruminating. They walked briskly down the road.