Sally Salisbury could have told her, but Sally, to her credit, be it said, did not seek to inflict a wound for the mere satisfaction of witnessing the agony of her rival. Vane was dead and retribution had swiftly overtaken his assassin. What was left? Nothing. Sally had also found romance, and some tender womanly instinct--an instinct too often blunted by her life and temptations--sealed her lips. She had avenged the death of the only man she ever loved with anything like purity. Let that suffice. The opera had an unprecedented run of sixty-two nights. Every one marvelled. Such a thing had never happened before and when the next season the run was continued its attractions were undimmed, save in one particular--the original Polly Peachum was no longer to be seen or heard. Gradually it became gossipped about that the Duke of Bolton's suit had succeeded. The Polly over whom everybody, rich and poor, high and low, for nearly five months had lost their heads and their hearts, had quitted the stage for ever. Twenty-three years later the duke was able to prove his devotion by making her his duchess. Even then she rarely took part in fashionable functions. Her simple tastes and dislike of display never deserted her. Yet she was not and is not forgotten, though nearly two hundred years have passed away since she burst into the full flush of fame. Her memory is preserved in every one of her innumerable successors who have succeeded in reproducing in any degree her charm and artlessness. This memory is not attached to Lavinia Duchess of Bolton, but to "Pretty Polly Peachum." THE END.