The two guests, Sir Nash Bohun and his son, were departing from Dallory Hall. They had arrived the previous afternoon in time to attend the funeral, had dined and slept there, and were now going again. Their coming had originated with Sir Nash. In his sympathy with the calamity--the particulars of which had been written to him by his nephew, Arthur Bohun--Sir Nash had proposed to show his concern and respect for the North family by coming with his son to attend the funeral. The offer was accepted; albeit Mrs. North was not best pleased to receive them. From some cause or other, madam had never been anxious to court intimacy with her first husband's brother: when thrown into his society, there was something in her manner that almost seemed to say she did not feel at ease with him. Neither at dinner last night nor at breakfast this morning had the master of the house been present; the entertainment of the guests had fallen on Richard North as his father's representative. Captain Bohun was of course with them; also the rest of the family, including madam. Madam played her part gracefully in black crape elaborately set off with jet. For once in her life she was honest and did not affect to feel the grief for Edmund that she would have felt for a son. Sitting disconsolately before the open window of his parlour was Mr. North. His black clothes looked too large for him, his whole air was that of one who seems to have lost interest in the world. It is astonishing how aged, as compared with other moments, men will look in their seasons of abandonment. While we battle with our cares, they spare the features in a degree: but in the abandonment of despair, when all around seems dreary, and we are sick and faint because to fight longer seems impossible, then look at the poor sunken face! The room was dingy; it has already been said; rather long but narrow; and it seemed uncared for. Opposite the fireplace stood an old secretaire filled with seeds and papers relating to gardening, and near it was a closet-door. This closet--but it was more a small, dark passage than a closet--had an opposite door opening to the dining-room. But, if the parlour was dingy, the capacious window and the prospect on which it looked, brightened it. Stretching out before it, broad and large, was the gay parterre of many-coloured flowers, Mr. North's only delight for years past. In the cultivation of these flowers, he had found a refuge from life's daily vexations and petty cares. Heaven is merciful, and some counterbalancing interest to long-continued sorrow is often supplied to us.