Some embers of his old taste for antiquities must still, indeed, have glowed within him, for in those last days he wrote a ‘History of the Inns of Court,’ with New Inn among them; but it is plain his heart was not in it. Henceforth his favourite volume was a sealed book to him; there were two names—once so frequent on his tongue—to which he never alluded, William Henry Erin and William Shakespeare. With respect to the former, Frank Dennis maintained a similar reticence for no less than five-and-twenty years. At the expiration of that time, Aunt Margaret received a certain letter, which she placed in her husband’s hands without a word. ‘Poor fellow!’ was his remark when he had read it. ‘Well! we must, of course, go up to town.’ William Henry had written from his sick bed to ask to see Margaret once more before he died. They had lived in the country ever since their marriage, but they set out for London at once. It was summer-time, the very month in which they had journeyed to Stratford-on-Avon more than a quarter of a century ago, and they talked of that time together without any reserve. ‘I think if it had not been for that visit to Bristol,’ said Frank thoughtfully, ‘that none of this sad business would have happened; it was Chatterton’s story that put it into his head.’ Margaret nodded sorrowful assent. She remembered well how the unhappy lad had defended his prototype’s conduct. ‘It was a miserable crime,’ she said, ‘and miserably has he suffered for it.’ ‘That is all we need think of now, Margaret; of that, and of his temptation,’ he added tenderly, ‘which, as I can witness, was excessive.’ Here was, indeed, a husband to thank heaven for, and she knew it. And yet—and yet—the tears were in her eyes upon another’s account. How bright and handsome had her Willie looked as he took his seat by her side at the inn table, on that other journey. How eager had been his face when he had first pressed his suit in Anne Hathaway’s garden. In the mist of memory the will-of-the-wisp looms large and twinkles like a very star. When they reached London, Margaret went alone to the lodging he had indicated; a poor place enough, but with no signs of want about it as she had feared, nor did the sick man lack due tendance. He was very near his end; but his eyes—all that was left of him that she recognised—flashed grateful recognition. [Illustration: ’SO GOOD OF YOU, SO LIKE YOU, MARGARET,’ HE MURMURED.] ‘So good of you, so like you, Margaret,’ he murmured.