He had died, and made no sign. Mr. Robert Beaufort’s countenance was still and composed. A knock at the door was heard; the lawyer entered. “Sir, the undertakers are here, and Mr. Greaves has ordered the bells to be rung: at three o’clock he will read the service.” “I am obliged to you., Blackwell, for taking these melancholy offices on yourself. My poor brother!--it is so sudden! But the funeral, you say, ought to take place to-day?” “The weather is so warm,” said the lawyer, wiping his forehead. As he spoke, the death-bell was heard. There was a pause. “It would have been a terrible shock to Mrs. Morton if she had been his wife,” observed Mr. Blackwell. “But I suppose persons of that kind have very little feeling. I must say that it was fortunate for the family that the event happened before Mr. Beaufort was wheedled into so improper a marriage.” “It was fortunate, Blackwell. Have you ordered the post-horses? I shall start immediately after the funeral.” “What is to be done with the cottage, sir?” “You may advertise it for sale.” “And Mrs. Morton and the boys?” “Hum! we will consider. She was a tradesman’s daughter. I think I ought to provide for her suitably, eh?” “It is more than the world could expect from you, sir; it is very different from a wife.” “Oh, very!--very much so, indeed! Just ring for a lighted candle, we will seal up these boxes. And--I think I could take a sandwich. Poor Philip!” The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away. What a strange thing it does seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly thrust out of sight--an abomination that the earth must not look upon--a despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so strong--which men respected, and women loved, and children clung to--to-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was and what it is! The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the house. Mr. Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs. Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes: “I will write to you in a few days, ma’am; you will find that I shall not forget you. The cottage will be sold; but we sha’n’t hurry you. Good-bye, ma’am; good-bye, my boys;” and he patted his nephews on the head. Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, “That boy will come to no good!” Little Sidney put his hand into the rich man’s, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face. “Can’t you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert?”