“How the wretches can force themselves to touch a morsel, after this morning!” Mrs. Fiske exclaimed, glancing at the table. “Men must eat,” said Mrs. Mel. The mourners were heard gathering outside the door. Mrs. Fiske escaped into the kitchen. Mrs. Mel admitted them into the parlour, bowing much above the level of many of the heads that passed her. Assembled were Messrs. Barnes, Kilne, and Grossby, whom we know; Mr. Doubleday, the ironmonger; Mr. Joyce, the grocer; Mr. Perkins, commonly called Lawyer Perkins; Mr. Welbeck, the pier-master of Lymport; Bartholomew Fiske; Mr. Coxwell, a Fallowfield maltster, brewer, and farmer; creditors of various dimensions, all of them. Mr. Goren coming last, behind his spectacles. “My son will be with you directly, to preside,” said Mrs. Mel. “Accept my thanks for the respect you have shown my husband. I wish you good morning.” “Morning, ma’am,” answered several voices, and Mrs. Mel retired. The mourners then set to work to relieve their hats of the appendages of crape. An undertaker’s man took possession of the long black cloaks. The gloves were generally pocketed. “That’s my second black pair this year,” said Joyce. “They’ll last a time to come. I don’t need to buy gloves while neighbours pop off.” “Undertakers’ gloves seem to me as if they’re made for mutton fists,” remarked Welbeck; upon which Kilne nudged Barnes, the butcher, with a sharp “Aha!” and Barnes observed: “Oh! I never wear ’em—they does for my boys on Sundays. I smoke a pipe at home.” The Fallowfield farmer held his length of crape aloft and inquired: “What shall do with this?” “Oh, you keep it,” said one or two. Coxwell rubbed his chin. “Don’t like to rob the widder.” “What’s left goes to the undertaker?” asked Grossby. “To be sure,” said Barnes; and Kilne added: “It’s a job”: Lawyer Perkins ejaculating confidently, “Perquisites of office, gentlemen; perquisites of office!” which settled the dispute and appeased every conscience. A survey of the table ensued. The mourners felt hunger, or else thirst; but had not, it appeared, amalgamated the two appetites as yet. Thirst was the predominant declaration; and Grossby, after an examination of the decanters, unctuously deduced the fact, which he announced, that port and sherry were present. “Try the port,” said Kilne. “Good?” Barnes inquired. A very intelligent “I ought to know,” with a reserve of regret at the extension of his intimacy with the particular vintage under that roof, was winked by Kilne. Lawyer Perkins touched the arm of a mourner about to be experimental on Kilne’s port— “I think we had better wait till young Mr. Harrington takes the table, don’t you see?” “Yes,-ah!” croaked Goren. “The head of the family, as the saying goes!” “I suppose we shan’t go into business to-day?” Joyce carelessly observed. Lawyer Perkins answered: “No. You can’t expect it. Mr. Harrington has led me to anticipate that he will appoint a day. Don’t you see?”