things, which he saw with unprecedented vividness, suggested themselves as his natural portion. Intimacies with a princess, visits to fine old country-houses, intelligent consideration, even, of the best means of inflicting a scare on the classes of privilege, would in that case not have been within his compass; and that Pinnie should have rescued him from such a destiny and put these luxuries within his reach was an amelioration which really amounted to success, if he could only have the magnanimity to regard it so. Her eyes were open and fixed on him, but the sharp ray the little dressmaker used to direct into Lomax Place as she plied her needle at the window had completely left them. “Not there—what should I do there?” she inquired, very softly. “Not with the great—the great—” and her voice failed. “The great what? What do you mean?” “You know—you know,” she went on, making another effort. “Haven’t you been with them? Haven’t they received you?” “Ah, they won’t separate us, Pinnie; they won’t come between us as much as that,” said Hyacinth, kneeling by her bed. “_You_ must be separate—that makes me happier. I knew they would find you at last.” “Poor Pinnie, poor Pinnie,” murmured the young man. “It was only for that—now I’m going,” she went on. “If you’ll stay with me you needn’t fear,” said Hyacinth, smiling at her. “Oh, what would _they_ think?” asked the dressmaker. “I like you best,” said Hyacinth. “You have had me always. Now it’s their turn; they have waited.” “Yes, indeed, they have waited!” Hyacinth exclaimed. “But they will make it up; they will make up everything!” the invalid panted. Then she added, “I couldn’t—couldn’t help it!”—which was the last flicker of her strength. She gave no further sign of consciousness, and four days later she ceased to breathe. Hyacinth was with her, and Lady Aurora, but neither of them could recognise the moment.