ollowing Alvina.

"So, we go together in the cab," said Madame to him. Then:
"Good-bye, my dear Miss Houghton. Perhaps we shall meet once more.
Who knows? My heart is with you, my dear." She put her arms round
Alvina and kissed her, a little theatrically. The cousin looked on,
very much aloof. Ciccio stood by.

"Come then, Ciccio," said Madame.

"Good-bye," said Alvina to him. "You'll come again, won't you?" She
looked at him from her strained, pale face.

"All right," he said, shaking her hand loosely. It sounded
hopelessly indefinite.

"You will come, won't you?" she repeated, staring at him with
strained, unseeing blue eyes.

"All right," he said, ducking and turning away.

She stood quite still for a moment, quite lost. Then she went on
with her cousin to her cab, home to the funeral tea.

"Good-bye!" Madame fluttered a black-edged handkerchief. But Ciccio,
most uncomfortable in his four-wheeler, kept hidden.

The funeral tea, with its baked meats and sweets, was a terrible
affair. But it came to an end, as everything comes to an end, and
Miss Pinnegar and Alvina were left alone in the emptiness of
Manchester House.

"If you weren't here, Miss Pinnegar, I should be quite by myself,"
said Alvina, blanched and strained.

"Yes. And so should I without you," said Miss Pinnegar doggedly.
They looked at each other. And that night both slept in Miss
Pinnegar's bed, out of sheer terror of the empty house.

During the days following the funeral, no one could have been more
tiresome than Alvina. James had left everything to his daughter,
excepting some rights in the work-shop, which were Miss Pinnegar's.
But the question was, how much did "everything" amount to? There
was something less than a hundred pounds in the bank. There was a
mortgage on Manchester House. There were substantial bills owing on
account of the Endeavour. Alvina had about a hundred pounds left
from the insurance money, when all funeral expenses were paid. Of
that she was sure, and of nothing else.

For the rest, she was almost driven mad by people coming to talk to
her. The lawyer came, the clergyman came, her cousin came, the old,
stout, prosperous tradesmen of Woodhouse came, Mr. May came, Miss
Pinnegar came. And they all had schemes, and they all had advice.
The chief plan was that the theatre should be sold up: and that
Manchester House should be sold, reserving a lease on the top floor,
where Miss Pinnegar's work-rooms were: that Mis