on her way to the Royalty Theatre.

She turned eagerly to the Princess, her mother. "We might send our own
doctor, Sir Charles Fowler, he is so very clever. Perhaps this
gentleman's friend has not had the best medical advice."

The Princess assented graciously. She was a very kind-hearted woman,
if not quite so enthusiastic in works of charity as her more impulsive
daughter.

Nello, with burning cheeks, gave the name of poor old Papa Peron and
the number of the small house in Dean Street. His cheeks flamed,
because he was wondering if she had recognised him as he had
remembered her. It was evident she thought he was poor by that remark
about the best medical advice.

He thanked both the ladies in a low tone, and for the second time
turned away. The man, Prince Zouroff, who had been fidgeting
impatiently during the short interview, leaned out of the window of
the carriage, and in a sharp, angry voice commanded the coachman to
drive on.

Ho sank back in his seat and darted a glance of contempt, first at his
sister, then at his mother.

"Your foolish sentimentality makes me sick, Nada. And I am surprised
at you for abetting her in it," he added for the benefit of the
Princess.

The Princess answered him in calm, sarcastic tones. "Would it not be
better, Boris, if you left off interfering with every word and act of
poor little Nada? If she has too much compassion, you redress the
balance by having none."

Nello hastened with quick strides in the direction of Dean Street. His
one fear was that Peron might have already passed away. It would be
heart-rending if he were not alive to hear the splendid news.

But the vital flame, although very low, was still burning. The old man
had had a long sleep, the sleep of exhaustion. By some strange effort
of will, he had allayed the impending dissolution, had awoke about
the expected time of Nello's return, and was sitting up in bed,
propped up against the pillows, awaiting the arrival of the young man
whom he had grown to regard as a son.

"It is well, I can see," he said in the low, husky voice that was so
soon to be hushed for ever. "It is well. Triumph is written all over
your face. You have scored an even greater success than you
anticipated, eh?"

Nello sank on his knees beside the bed, at which his sister had
devotedly seated herself, to watch the least movement of the dying
man. He possessed himself of one of the long, wasted hands--those
hands which had once made