The first performance was announced for that night: there would be such an audience! the best seats even now pre-engaged; first night of the race-week. The clock had struck seven; the performance began at eight. AND SOPHY WOULD NOT ACT! The child was seated in a space that served for the greenroom, behind the scenes. The whole company had been convened to persuade or shame her out of her obstinacy. The king’s lieutenant, the seductive personage of the troupe, was on one knee to her, like a lover. He was accustomed to lovers’ parts, both on the stage and off it. Off it, he had one favoured phrase, hackneyed, but effective. “You are too pretty to be so cruel.” Thrice he now repeated that phrase, with a simper between each repetition that might have melted a heart of stone. Behind Sophy’s chair, and sticking calico-flowers into the child’s tresses, stood the senior matron of the establishment,--not a bad sort of woman,--who kept the dresses, nursed the sick, revered Rugge, told fortunes on a pack of cards which she always kept in her pocket, and acted occasionally in parts where age was no drawback and ugliness desirable,--such as a witch, or duenna, or whatever in the dialogue was poetically called “Hag.” Indeed, Hag was the name she usually took from Rugge; that which she bore from her defunct husband was Gormerick. This lady, as she braided the garland, was also bent on the soothing system, saying, with great sweetness, considering that her mouth was full of pins, “Now, deary, now, dovey, look at ooself in the glass; we could beat oo, and pinch oo, and stick pins into oo, dovey, but we won’t. Dovey will be good, I know;” and a great patch of rouge came on the child’s pale cheeks. The clown therewith, squatting before her with his hands on his knees, grinned lustily, and shrieked out, “My eyes, what a beauty!” Rugge, meanwhile, one hand thrust in his bosom, contemplated the diplomatic efforts of his ministers, and saw, by Sophy’s compressed lips and unwinking eyes, that their cajoleries were unsuccessful. He approached and hissed into her ear, “Don’t madden me! don’t! you will act, eh?” “No,” said Sophy, suddenly rising; and tearing the wreath from her hair, she set her small foot on it with force. “No, not if you kill me!” “Gods!” faltered Rugge. “And the sum I have paid! I am diddled! Who has gone for Mrs. Crane?” “Tom,” said the clown. The word was scarcely out of the clown’s mouth ere Mrs. Crane herself emerged from a side scene, and, putting off her bonnet, laid both hands on the child’s shoulders, and looked her in the face without speaking. The child as firmly returned the gaze. Give that child a martyr’s cause, and in that frail body there would have been a martyr’s soul. Arabella Crane, not inexperienced in children, recognized a power of will stronger than the power of brute force, in that tranquillity of eye, the spark of calm light in its tender blue, blue, pure as the sky; light, steadfast as the star.