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“Bravo!” cried Nicholas, resolved to make the best of everything. “Beautiful!”

“This, sir,” said Mr. Vincent Crummles, bringing the Maiden forward, “This is the Infant Phenomenon–Miss Ninetta Crummles.”

“Your daughter?” inquired Nicholas.

“My daughter–my daughter,” replied Mr. Crummles; “the idol of every place we go into, sir. We have had complimentary letters about this girl, sir, from the nobility and gentry of almost every town in England.”

“I am not surprised at that,” said Nicholas; “she must be quite a natural genius.”

“Quite a–!” Mr. Crummles stopped: language was not powerful enough to describe the Infant Phenomenon. “I’ll tell you what, sir,” he said; “the talent of this child is not to be imagined. She must be seen, sir–seen–to be ever so faintly appreciated. There; go to your mother, my dear.”

“May I ask how old she is?” inquired Nicholas.

“You may, sir,” replied Mr. Crummles, “She is ten years of age, sir,”

“Not more?”

“Not a day.”

“Dear me,” said Nicholas, “it’s extraordinary.”

It was; for the Infant Phenomenon certainly looked older, and had moreover, been precisely the same age for certainly five years. But she had been kept up late every night, and put upon an unlimited allowance of gin and water from infancy, to prevent her growing tall, and perhaps this system of training had produced in the Infant Phenomenon these additional phenomena.

When this dialogue was concluded, another member of the company, Mr. Folair, joined Nicholas, and confided to him the contempt of the entire troupe for the Infant Phenomenon. “Infant Humbug sir!” he said. “There isn’t a female child of common sharpness in a charity school that couldn’t do better than that. She may thank her stars she was born a manager’s daughter.”

“You seem to take it to heart,” observed Nicholas with a smile.

“Yes, by Jove, and well I may,” said Mr. Folair testily “isn’t it enough to make a man crusty, to see the little sprawler put up in the best business every night, and actually keeping money out of the house by being forced down the people’s throats while other people are passed over? Why, I know of fifteen-and-sixpence that came to Southampton last month to see me dance the Highland Fling, and what’s the consequence? I’ve never been put up at it since–never once–while the ‘Infant Phenomenon’ has been grinning through artificial flowers at five people and a baby in the pit, and two boys in the gallery, every night.”

From these bitter remarks, it may be inferred that there were two ways of looking at the performances of the Infant Phenomenon, but as jealousy is well known to be unjust in its criticism, and as the Infant was too highly praised by her own band of admirers to be much affected by such remarks, if any of them reached her ears, there is no evidence that her joy was diminished by reason of the complaints of captious fault-finders.

At the first evening performance which Nicholas witnessed, he found the various members of the company very much changed; by reason of false hair, false color, false calves, false muscles, they had become different beings; the stage also was set in the most elaborate fashion,–in short everything was on a scale of the utmost splendor and preparation.

Nicholas was standing contemplating the first scene when the manager accosted him.

“Been in front to-night?” said Mr. Crummles.

“No,” replied Nicholas, “not yet. I am going to see the play.”

“We’ve had a pretty good Let,” said Mr. Crummles. “Four front places in the centre, and the whole of the stage box.”

“Oh, indeed!” said Nicholas; “a family, I suppose?”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Crummles. “It’s an affecting thing. There are six children, and they never come unless the Phenomenon plays.”

It would have been difficult for any party to have visited the theatre on a night when the Phenomenon did not play, inasmuch as she always sustained one, and not uncommonly two or three characters, every night; but Nicholas, sympathizing with the feelings of a father, refrained from hinting at this trifling circumstance, and Mr. Crummies continued: