“The funeral is to be on Friday,” repeated Mr. Desmond, when he had folded and put away the letter. He was on the point of endorsing it with the rest of his correspondence, but changed his mind, and laid it gently aside in a drawer of his desk. “Not amongst tradesmen’s lies, and samples of double-crown, and contributors’ complaints,” he said. “On Friday? Yes; I will attend my poor old tutor’s funeral. It will comfort her to think that _one_ friend followed him to his grave.” Early on the appointed morning, Mr. Desmond knocked at the door of the Ventnor lodging-house. “Miss Alford is at home, of course,” he said to the maid. “Be so good as to take her this card, and tell her that I have come to attend the funeral, but will not intrude upon her.” He spoke in a low voice; but those cautious, suppressed tones are of all accents the most penetrating. The door of the parlour was opened softly, and Mrs. Jerningham came out into the passage. “I recognized your voice,” she said. “How very good of you to come!” “Not at all. But how good of _you_ to come! I had no idea that I should meet you here.” “And I was quite sure that I should meet _you_ here,” replied Emily, with the faintest possible sneer. “Is Lucy in that room?” “Yes.” “I do not want to see her. I wished to show my regard for that poor old man. I spent many pleasant days under his roof, and he has made so lonely an ending. It is very good of you to come, Emily; and your presence here relieves me very much with regard to that poor girl’s future. I do not think you would be here if you were not really interested in her.” “Yes, Laurence; I am really interested in--your _protégée_.” “She is not my _protégée_; but I wish you to make her yours, because I scarcely think you could find a creature more in need of your charity. Poor child! she is very much distressed, I suppose.” “For the moment she is heart-broken. I shall take her away from here this evening.” “My dear Emily, I knew I was safe in relying on your noble nature!” exclaimed the editor, with enthusiasm. “For pity’s sake, do not be so grateful. I have done no more than I would for any other helpless woman whom fate flung across my path. In the whole affair there is only one element that makes the act a sacrifice.” “And that is----?” “What only a woman can feel or understand. Pray, do not let us talk about it. The funeral will not take place for an hour.” “I will go and get a band for my hat, and return here for the ceremony. There will be one mourning-coach, I suppose.” “Yes. The doctor has kindly promised to act as chief mourner. There is no one else.” “Poor Tristram! If you only knew that man’s appreciation of Greek; and Greek is the only language which requires a special genius in the scholar. And to die like this!”