its deadly approaches.  Consumption sported with its victim in the cruel fashion that is its wont.  “I continue to mend,” Sterne writes from Bond Street on the first day of the new year, “and doubt not but this with all other evils and uncertainties of life will end for the best.”  And for the best perhaps it did end, in the sense in which the resigned Christian uses these pious words; but this, one fears, was not the sense intended by the dying man.  All through January and February he was occupied not only with business, but as it would seem with a fair amount, though less, no doubt, than his usual share, of pleasure also.  Vastly active was he, it seems, in the great undertaking of obtaining tickets for one of Mrs. Cornely’s entertainments—­the “thing” to go to at that particular time—­for his friends the Jameses.  He writes them on Monday that he has not been a moment at rest since writing the previous day about the Soho ticket.  “I have been at a Secretary of State to get one, have been upon one knee to my friend Sir George Macartney, Mr. Lascelles, and Mr. Fitzmaurice, without mentioning five more.  I believe I could as soon get you a place at Court, for everybody is going; but I will go out and try a new circle, and if you do not hear from me by a quarter to three, you may conclude I have been unfortunate in my supplications.”  Whether he was or was not unfortunate history does not record.  A week or two later the old round of dissipation had apparently set in.  “I am now tied down neck and heels by engagements every night this week, or most joyfully would have trod the old pleasing road from Bond to Gerrard Street.  I am quite well, but exhausted with a roomful of company every morning till dinner.”  A little later, and this momentary flash of health had died out; and we find him writing what was his last letter to his daughter, full, evidently, of uneasy forebodings as to his approaching end.  He speaks of “this vile influenza—­be not alarmed.  I think I shall get the better of it, and shall be with you both the 1st of May;” though, he adds, “if I escape, ’twill not be for a long period, my child—­unless a quiet retreat and peace of mind can restore me.”  But the occasion of this letter was a curious one, and a little more must be extracted from it.  Lydia Sterne’s letter to her father had, he said, astonished him.  “She (Mrs. Sterne) could know but little of my feelings to tell thee that under the supposition I should survive thy mother I should bequeath thee as a legacy to Mrs. Draper.  No, my Lydia, ’tis a lady whose virtues I wish thee to imitate”—­Mrs. James, in fact, whom he proceeds to praise with much and probably well-deserved warmth.  “But,” he adds, sadly, “I think, my Lydia, thy mother will survive me; do not deject her spirit with thy apprehensions on my account.  I have sent you a necklace and buckles, and the same to your mother.  My girl cannot form a wish that is in the power of her father that he will not gratify her in; and I cannot in justice be less kind to thy mother.  I am never alone.  The kindness of my friends is ever the same.  I wish though I had thee to nurse me, but I am denied that.  Write to me twice a week at least.  God bless thee, my child, and believe me ever, ever, thy affectionate father.”