He mechanically obeyed her--reeled into an inner drawing room--and stood in the presence of the bereaved mother. Mrs. Vernon was ordinarily the very picture of neatness. _Now_ she sat with her feet on a footstool--her head almost touching her lap--her silver hair all loose and dishevelled. It seemed to Delmé as if age had suddenly come upon her. She rose as he entered, and with wild hysterical sobs, threw herself into his arms. "My son I my son! that _should_ have been. Our angel is gone--gone!" Delmé tried to speak, but his tongue clove to his mouth, and the hysteric globe rose to his throat. Suddenly he heard the sound of wheels, and of heavy footsteps on the stairs. He imprinted a kiss on the old woman's forehead--it was his farewell for ever!--gave her to the care of the maid servant--and rushed from the room. He was stopped on the landing of the staircase by the coffin of her he loved so well. The bearers stopped for an instant; they felt that this was no common greeting. Part of the pall was already turned back. Delmé removed its head with trembling hand. "Julia Vernon. ætate 22." He dropped the velvet with a groan, and was only saved from falling by the timely aid of the old butler, whose face was as sorrowful as his own. But there was a duty yet to be performed, and Delmé followed the corpse. The first mourning coach was just drawn up. An intended occupant had already his foot on the step. "This place is mine!" said Sir Henry in a hollow voice. The cortege proceeded; and Delmé, giddy and confused, heard solemn words spoken over his affianced one, and he waited, till even the coffin could be discerned no more. Thompson, who had followed his master, assisted him into his carriage, placed himself beside him, and ordered the driver to proceed to the hotel. But Delmé gave a quick impetuous motion of the hand, which the domestic understood well; and the horses' heads were turned towards the metropolis. The mourner tarried not, even to bid his sister farewell; but sought once more his brother's grave. Some friendly hand had kept its turf smooth; no footsteps, save the innocent ones of children, had pressed its grassy mound. It was clothed with soft daisies and drooping harebells. The sun seemed to shine on that spot, to bid the wanderer be contented and at rest. But as yet there was no rest for Delmé. And he stood beside the marble slab, beneath which lay Acmé Frascati. The downy moss--soft as herself--was luxuriating there; and the cry of the cicalas was pleasant to the ear; and the image of the young Greek girl, as in a vivid picture, rose to his mind's eye. She was not attired in her white cymar; nor was her head wreathed with monumental amaranths;--health was on her cheek, fond smiles on her pouting lip, and tender love swimming in her melting glance.