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 322 her voice always thrilled him so! She saw it, and changed her strain to something lively.

“Yes,” he said, “you may choose a cheerful strain this day. You have had many griefs, Mrs. Neville; but they are drawing to a close; can you bear happiness as you have borne sorrow?”

“Alas! it was the happiness of success which made me so ill; but I think I can bear anything you may have in store for me;” and she smiled, expecting to hear of a new pupil, or something equally exciting.

Crowe hesitated as to his next step, when a new idea struck him.

“I want to take you to your happiness,” he said; “half an hour’s ride will bring you to a great joy.”

She looked towards the children in the little back-garden.

“Martha will take care of them.”

Still she smiled incredulously.

“But I have so much work to do, and a pupil in the afternoon.”

Crowe was roused into consigning the pupil in question to so fearful a doom, that Mrs. Neville seemed startled into the belief that something must have happened.

“Pray don’t refuse me,” he urged.

“You are so kind, Crowe, that I cannot; but it is rather a wild-goose scheme, is it not?”

“Rely upon me, Mrs. Neville; dear me, am I not sober enough? It may be extraordinary; but it is plain, substantial reality.”

And so they went together. Mrs. Neville in silent wonder; Crowe in equally silent exultation. But her perplexity increased as he led her into Sir John’s house, and up the stairs into the bed-room. The curtains were drawn, she could hardly see the figure in the bed, but there was no doubt as to the voice which spoke:

“My child! my Agnes! I can you forgive me for not forgiving you? Come back home to me, never, leave me more! I have so longed for you!”

There was no reply, save by sobs and kisses, and soft-hearted Crowe could stand it no longer: he hastened away to fetch the children.

Henceforward, no fears for them. Mrs. Neville herself recovered gradually her former health, now the pressure of cares and anxiety was removed from her mind, but the remembrance of her influenced her whole life, as many an artist, worn out, or unfortunate, or destitute can testify. And the poor, neglected Crowe found at last a genial, happy home, where still his ears were indulged with the beautiful singing of the “prima donna” of the house.

As for Smith, the fickle public, after pampering him for years, came to the conclusion that the genius was a humbug! He made a vain struggle to keep up his long-admitted claim, and then the great composer washed, shaved, and settled down into a respectable though somewhat misanthropical music-master.

Rossi will, I have no doubt, appear before the public next season, as he has done on so many previous occasions, but never since has he made such a hit as on that one night of Maude Percy’s début.

.—Pitt died at his house on Putney Heath, near the spot where Canning and Castlereagh fought their duel, and in a very neglected state, none of his family or friends being with him at the time. One, who was sincerely attached to him, hearing of his illness, rode from London to see him. Arriving at his house he rang the bell at the entrance-gate, but no one came. Dismounting, he made his way to the hall-door, and repeatedly rang the bell, which no one answered. He then entered the house, wandered from room to room, till at last he discovered Pitt on a bed—dead, and entirely neglected. It is supposed, that such was his poverty, he had not been able to pay the wages of his servants, and that they had absconded, taking with them what they could.

.—The skeletons in our crowded London graveyards lie in layers which are quite historical in their significance, and which would be often startling if the circumstances of their juxta-position could be made known. A cutting from an old London newspaper (title and date uncertain), and which exists in the well-known repertory of Mr. Green of Covent Garden, contains an example of skeleton contact which is unusually curious, if reliable. It is there stated that Dr. Sacheverell is buried in St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and that the notorious Mother Needham of Hogarth is lying above him, and above her again is interred Booth the actor, a strange stratification of famous or notorious clay.