ittle painted
paper shade. One of them got wrong, and a footman tried to reach over
Lord Garsington's head to put it straight.

"I'll do it," said he.

"No, no; let the man," said Lady Honoria. "Look! it is going to catch
fire!"

"Nonsense," he answered, rising solemnly and reaching his arm towards
the shade. As he touched it, it caught fire; indeed, by touching it he
caused it to catch fire. He seized hold of it, and made an effort to put
it out, but it burnt his fingers.

"Curse the thing!" he said aloud, and threw it from him. It fell flaming
in his sister's dress among the thickest of the filmy laces; they
caught, and instantly two wreathing snakes of fire shot up her. She
sprang from her seat and rushed screaming down the room, an awful mass
of flame!

In ten more minutes Lady Honoria had left this world and its pleasures
to those who still lived to taste them.

An hour passed. Geoffrey still sat brooding heavily over his pipe in the
study in Bolton Street and waiting for Honoria, when a knock came to his
door. The servants had all gone to bed, all except the sick nurse.
He rose and opened it himself. A little red-haired, pale-faced man
staggered in.

"Why, Garsington, is it you? What do you want at this hour?"

"Screw yourself up, Bingham, I've something to tell you," he answered in
a thick voice.

"What is it? another disaster, I suppose. Is somebody else dead?"

"Yes; somebody is. Honoria's dead. Burnt to death at the ball."

"Great God! Honoria burnt to death. I had better go----"

"I advise you not, Bingham. I wouldn't go to the hospital if I were you.
Screw yourself up, and if you can, give me something to drink--I'm about
done--I must screw myself up."

And here we may leave this most fortunate and gifted man. Farewell to
Geoffrey Bingham.

ENVOL

Thus, then, did these human atoms work out their destinies, these little
grains of animated dust, blown hither and thither by a breath which came
they knew not whence.

If there be any malicious Principle among the Powers around us that
deigns to find amusement in the futile vagaries of man, well might it
laugh, and laugh again, at the great results of all this scheming,
of all these desires, loves and hates; and if there be any pitiful
Principle, well might it sigh over the infinite pathos of human
helplessness. Owen Davies lost in his own passion; Geoffrey crowned with
prosperity and haunted by undying sorrow; Honoria perishi