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 represented almost a grand position as opposed to a foul, if he could only have the magnanimity to take 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; and he sank to his knees by her bed. “_You_ must be separate—that makes me happier. I knew they’d find you at last.” “Poor Pinnie, poor Pinnie,” murmured the young man. “It was only for that—now I’m going,” she sighed. “If you’ll stay with me you needn’t fear,” he smiled at her. “Oh what would _they_ think?” she quavered. “I like you best,” he insisted. “You’ve had me always. Now it’s their turn; they’ve waited.” “Yes indeed they’ve waited!” Hyacinth said. “But they’ll make it up; they’ll make up everything!” the poor woman 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 ceased to breathe. Hyacinth was with her and Lady Aurora, but neither could recognise the moment.