"What does he want?" said the manager.
"Go and ask his business."

Mrs. Snuffburn was saved the trouble. The
stranger had ascended the stairs and entered the
room before Mr. M' Variety had iinished speaking.

"Mr. M'Variety," he said, "we received this
cheque the other day from Madame Ernestine,
in payment of a wine bill; we gave her a receipt
and the change out of it, and to-day the cheque
has been returned from the bank marked ' no
effects.' In fact, sir, it has been dishonoured."

"What is the amount, and whose cheque is
it?" the manager asked.

"It is a cheque for twenty pounds," said the
man, "and it is signed 'Edgar Greyfaunt.'"

Lily blushed crimson.

"There must be some mistake," said the
manager. "Mr. Greyfaunt is a man of fortune;
you'd better make inquiries again."

"It would save us much trouble, sir," said
the man, "if you would pay the money."

"Oh, I can't do that," said the manager;
"it's no affair of mine, you know, and—"

"Stay," said Sir William Long; "let us
have no more words about the matter." And
he took out his pocket-book and handed the
man notes for the amount of the cheque.

"Now, sir, you may go."

The man put the dishonoured cheque on the
table, took up the notes, and left the room.

Mr. Edgar Greyfaunt had paid more for his
box than any of the others, but his cheque was
worth exactly the value of the paper upon which
it was written.

Mr. Thomas Tuttleshell triumphed in his
secret soul.

"The insolent Brummagem puppy!" he
muttered between his teeth.

Mr. Tuttleshell's only regret was, that the
solemnity of the occasion forbade him to give
audible expression to his satisfaction. But
though he restrained himself for the moment, he
could not leave without easing his soul by a
commentary on Greyfaunt's shabby conduct. It
was to Lily that he made the remark.

"I always thought that fellow, Greyfaunt,
was an impostor," he said, "and now I am sure
of it. Wasn't it good of Sir William to pay the
money and save the fellow's credit, in the way
he did? And without a word, too! Ah, Sir
William is a real gentleman, my dear, with a
big heart."

Honest Thomas! he knew not the conflict of
painful emotions which these words aroused in
Lily's throbbing breast.

Under the direction of Sir William Long, the
funeral was conducted as plainly and privately
as possible. In humble and unpretending fashion
—much to Mr. M'Variety's regret, for he felt
that he was losing a magnificent advertisement
for the opening of the summer season—
the beautiful Vaudrien Valérie, once the bright
particular star of the Paris theatres, the reigning
queen among the beauties of her day, the
dazzling enslaver of hearts, and the wife of
Francis Blunt, Esquire, an English gentleman
of high lineage and ancient descent, was carried
to her last home, followed by an irregular train
of horse-riders, and acrobats, and circus clowns.

Her grave had been dug at Kensal-green by
order of Mr. M'Variety, who, contemplating an
open car and a display of circus horses, was
desirous that the route might be as long as
possible: on the principle of the longer the route
the better the advertisement.

Sir William Long did not join the procession
at the gardens, but drove down by himself, early,
and waited among the tombstones for its arrival.
It was a fine, clear, frosty day, and the sun
shone out cheerfully. Sir William wandered
about among the monuments, thoughtful and
moody. It was almost a new scene to him,
for he had rarely stood among graves and felt
the chastening influence which the contemplation
of death exercises upon thoughtful minds.
He was surprised to find himself musing
pleasantly, looking death in the face in his own
dominion, calmly and without fear; nay, almost
envying those who slept so peacefully under
mound and stone. What was it that had so
subdued the heart of this man of fashion, this
pleasure-loving bachelor, with all the gay
delights of the world at his command, with ample
wealth, with health and strength, and many
days yet before him? What was it? What
could it be but love, the true love of the heart,
which is akin to all that is pure and holy, that
love which is almost a redemption in itself,
which sanctifies all things, and is a witness to
the divine likeness in which man was made. It
was the image of Lily's sweet face that hovered
about him, brightening the scene, and robbing
the graves of their terror. How he loved her!
oh, so tenderly, so purely, with all his heart and
with all his soul! He had led a gay, reckless
life, and though in the pursuit of his pleasures
he had never been heartless, or cruel, or mean,
he knew and felt that he had much to answer
for. But that account seemed to be redeemed
by the purifying influence of the love which now
filled his breast. He felt that he was a better
man for it.

Sir William was startled from his reflections
by a noise of wheels on the gravel-path behind
him. It was the hearse containing the body of
the countess, followed by the two mourning
coaches. He helped Lily from her coach, and
stood beside her at the mouth of the grave.
Constant stood on the other side of her, and
took her hand, and as dust was cast upon dust,
and ashes were scattered upon ashes, Jean
Baptiste Constant looked down into the grave
of hopes long since blighted, long since dead,
hopes that had been born and nursed in the
quiet village of Marouille-le-Gency, far away in
France, but which now lay here in a foreign land,
buried for ever. Was it in mercy to his blank
and desolate heart that the sun burst from a
passing cloud and fell upon the coffin, lighting
up the name upon the plate, as with a halo of
glory—a promise of hope hereafter?

Sir William walked by Lily's side to the
coach and helped her in. He held out his