he could suddenly exalt a jester's part, and call forth tears in the
startled hush of laughter; he whom the Cobbler had rightly said, "might
have made a fortune at Covent Garden." There was the remnant of the old
popular mime!--all his attributes of eloquence reduced to dumb show!
Masterly touch of nature and of art in this representation of him,--touch
which all who had ever in former years seen and heard him on that stage
felt simultaneously. He came in for his personal portion of dramatic
tears. "Waife, Waife!" cried many a village voice, as the little girl
led him to the front of the stage.

He hobbled; there was a bandage round his eyes. The plot, in describing
the accident that had befallen the Bandit, idealized the genuine
infirmities of the man,--infirmities that had befallen him since last
seen in that village. He was blind of one eye; he had become crippled;
some malady of the trachea or larynx had seemingly broken up the once
joyous key of the old pleasant voice. He did not trust himself to speak,
even on that stage, but silently bent his head to the rustic audience;
and Vance, who was an habitual playgoer, saw in that simple salutation
that the man was an artistic actor. All was over, the audience streamed
out, much affected, and talking one to the other. It had not been at all
like the ordinary stage exhibitions at a village fair. Vance and Lionel
exchanged looks of surprise, and then, by a common impulse, moved towards
the stage, pushed aside the curtain, which had fallen, and were in that
strange world which has so many reduplications, fragments of one broken
mirror, whether in the proudest theatre or the lowliest barn,--nay,
whether in the palace of kings, the cabinet of statesmen, the home of
domestic life,--the world we call "Behind the Scenes."