“During the service, Lady Fitzhenry appeared engrossed by it as one whose heart’s home is in heaven. When it was ended, all seemed respectfully to wait to let her pass; the village children eagerly watching for an opportunity to catch her eye in order to make their little obeisances, in the hope of a smile or kind word from her in return. I too might then have spoken to her, but a deep feeling of respect for her sorrows restrained me. I feared the sight of me might recall past days, and I did not like to intrude upon her. “When all were gone, I still loitered in the church, and the clergyman and I at last were left alone. Seeing me examining the Fitzhenry arms with interest, he came up to me; and, after some usual civilities had passed, I asked him whether Lord Fitzhenry was buried in the church. “‘Yes!’ he replied, pointing to a marble slab; ‘beneath that stone is the family vault. It is now about a year since I read over it the funeral service: and many such sad duties have I performed, many melancholy scenes of death have I been witness to; but never, I think, will the impression of that day be effaced from my memory. I remember it was unusually fine for the season, the bright sun forming such a striking contrast with the scene. It seemed to be a gratification to Lord Arlingford’s feelings to pay every possible outward mark of respect to his son, and in every way to testify his deep affliction for his loss; and, with this idea, he desired that no expense might be spared at his funeral. ‘I don’t think that would have been the way in which I should have indulged my grief,’ added the respectable old pastor; ‘but we show our feelings differently;’ and certainly nothing could be more impressive than the sight of the long funeral procession, and the waving of the black banners and plumes, when moving slowly down the avenue that leads from the house to the village. The whole parish, even the county for many miles round attended; for Lord Fitzhenry was much and justly beloved—and many too of course came for the mere show. Of all this costly dismal pageant, what struck me with the strongest feelings of melancholy was, the hearse, drawn by Lord Fitzhenry’s own beautiful horses, which by his father’s orders had been trained to a slow pace for the purpose; but, although pains had been taken to break them into their mournful duty, yet, excited and fretted I suppose by the crowd around them, and the trappings with which they were covered, it was with difficulty they could be restrained; and when, at last, they were stopped at the gate of the church-yard, they proudly pawed the ground, and tossed their heads, as in the days when they drew their master in all the pride of youth and health, totally unconscious of the last sad office they were then performing for him.