To this open and extensive heath the three above-named betook themselves for the sake of enjoying the fine air and wide scenery. Sir Andrew Featherstone, who was very ready with his quaint remarks when any thing was said or done at all susceptible of ridiculous construction or comment, was mute as fish, and awkward as a fish out of water, when his company was decidedly serious. Though the facetious baronet very promptly offered, or rather urged his services to accompany Lady Woodstock to the heath, yet before the party had made much progress, Sir Andrew felt himself almost weary of his charge. He had made several attempts at talk, and had failed; and to the few remarks uttered by the ladies, as he was not prepared with a lively or witty reply, he returned none at all, or such a one as did not by any means promise to be productive of further colloquy or discussion. Happy to avail himself of any thing which afforded a prospect of a subject for discourse, as soon as they had passed the lodge, the worthy baronet most fortunately descried at a little distance a great concourse of people issuing from that part of the wood which bordered on the common, and apparently surrounding a funeral procession. The multitude took the direction towards the town; and the curiosity of Sir Andrew and his party being excited by the unusual number of people who surrounded the procession, took the same direction, and arrived at the church-yard almost as soon as the funeral. Curiosity is contagious; few can resist the impulse to gaze upon a spectacle surrounded by many spectators. The party from the Abbey were curious to know who and what it was which excited so very general an interest. They approached as near as they could, without forming part of the crowd. They waited till the coffin was deposited in the earth; and as many of the crowd stayed to gaze into the grave where the body was laid, the mourners in returning from the church-yard were less encumbered by the curious multitude, so that they were distinctly visible. The procession of the mourners was but short, yet several of them were real mourners. There is something very touching in the struggle which real sorrow makes to calm its agitation, and to suppress its tears; and there sometimes is a strong and deep feeling which tears or loud laments might relieve, but which, from a sense of its own intensity, dares not indulge in those expressions over which it might have no controul, or in yielding to which it might be betrayed into extravagance. This was a feeling which manifestly had possession of more than one of the mourners, who had attracted the curiosity of Sir Andrew Featherstone and the ladies that were with him. The keenness of their sorrow prevented Lady Woodstock and her daughter from gazing upon them with an eye of too curious inquiry. To gaze upon the afflicted without a look of sympathy is very cruel; and to look with compassion upon the eye that is full of tears, which it