William and Constant were so anxious for her
to go to Pomeroy's.

An inquest was held upon the body of the
countess, and the jury returned a verdict of
accidental death. The moment the inquest was
over, Mr. M'Variety, the manager, waited upon
Lily with the kind intention of taking the
responsibility of the funeral off her hands. In his
kindest intentions Mr. M'Variety always had an
eye to business.

"I've been thinking, missy," he said, " that
your poor mamma ought to have a grand funeral.
She was a celebrated public character, you
know, and is entitled to it; besides, my dear,
she has done so well for me this season, that I
should like to show my respect for her."

Lily timidly ventured to think that, under the
painful circumstances, it would be better if the
funeral were conducted quietly.

Mr. M'Variety, however, did not see it in this
light.

"Now, I think you're wrong there, my dear,"
he said. " When a celebrated person like your
ma dies, and we must all die, my dear, some
time or other" —Mr. M'Variety had it on the
tip of his tongue to add " worse luck," but
suddenly discovering that he was moralising
prettily, checked himself, and glided over into
another sentiment. " And the least we can do,
when eminent personages depart," he continued,
"is to pay respect to their ashes. I don't know
what you think, my dear, but when any friend
of mine departs this life, I always feel that I
can't grieve half enough for him—not so much
as I ought, you know. It's such a busy world,
my dear, and one's got so much to attend to, one
hasn't time for it. What I say, then, is, if you
haven't tears for a departed friend, give him
feathers; give him six black horses; give him
mutes; and if you haven't time to weep yourself,
let crape weep for you. In this busy world, my
dear, you're obliged to do a good deal of this
sort of thing by deputy. You've been in France
most of your life, and don't know; but in this
country, the swells, when they can't attend a
funeral themselves, send their empty carriages,
and the horses and the coachmen do the mourning
for them."

Poor Lily! She had never been able to shift
her burden of sorrow to other shoulders, but
had borne her own grief, wearily, for many a
day through a vale of bitter tears. She was
weeping now.

"Now don't you cry, missy, or bother yourself
about it at all," said the manager. " I'll
attend to everything. I have a friend at Chelsea
Hospital, and I dare say through him I shall be
able to borrow the car that was used at the
funeral of Lord Nelson. If it's out of order,
Billy Van Post will soon touch it up a bit; or
if they won't lend it, Billy can knock up
something of the same sort; and we'll have the circus
horses out, and I'm sure all my people will
attend as a mark of respect to a member of their
profession."

Mr. M'Variety was thinking of an advertisement
for the gardens. He was not a bad fellow
at heart; but he would have exhibited the
mummy of his grandmother to promote business.

Luckily for Lily, whose feeble protests were
completely overborne by the manager's voluble
persistency in settling all the arrangements
according to his own fancy, Sir William Long
called at the Cottage, accompanied by Mr.
Thomas Tuttleshell.

Sir William, of course, would not hear of Mr.
M'Variety's proposal, and, with Lily's consent,
took the management of the funeral into his
own hands. In the midst of her grief and sore
trouble Lily found many kind and attentive
friends. Constant and Sir William Long visited
her daily; Lord Carlton had called twice; old
Kafooze came to the door with tears in his eyes
to say that he was sorry, very sorry for having
made that unlucky remark about the whip.
"If I had thought, my dear, what was going
to happen," he whimpered, "I wouldn't have
said it for the world. But it was to be, it was
to be; our destiny is with the stars, and we
cannot alter it."

Poor old tender-hearted Kafooze! He was
afraid that Lily might hate him for having
prophesied evil; and he came to ask her pardon and
plead with her for forgiveness.

Every one whom she had known at the gardens
called at the Cottage to press her hand and
console her with a kind word—every one but Edgar
Greyfaunt.

Where was Edgar?

This was the first thought that arose in her
breast when she recovered from the shock of
her mother's death. She knew that he was in
the circus at the time of the accident, for she
had gone into the passage behind the boxes, and
in peeping through the chink of a box door she
had seen him talking to Sir William Long.
When the countess was carried out, Sir William
Long, Lord Carlton, Mr. Tuttleshell, every one
of her friends and patrons had followed to the
Cottage—every one except Edgar.

Whither had he gone? Why had he gone?
Why had he not called to see her, to speak a
word to her, to make an inquiry concerning her
mother? Lily's vacant heart was filled with
these distracting questions, racking her with
doubts and fears which she could not bear to
think of. They struggled again and again to
rise to her tongue; but again and again she
repressed them and kept them down, dreading to
reveal to others even a suspicion of the vague
fear which agitated her. Every footstep on
the gravel-walk outside, every knock at the
Cottage door, aroused hopes of Edgar's coming.
Her tongue was silent; but her restless eye
betrayed the troubled thoughts which possessed
her breast.

A few minutes after the arrival of Sir William
Long accompanied by Mr. Tuttleshell, Mrs.
Snuffburn came in to say that there was a person
below wanting to see some one.

"Who is the person?" the manager asked.

"I don't know, sir," said the housekeeper;
"he is a stranger to me."