For the last three weeks Mr. Aubrey had addressed himself with calmness and energy to the painful duties which had devolved upon him, of _setting his house in order_. Immediately after quitting the dinner-table that day--a mere nominal meal to all of them--he had retired to the library, to complete the extensive and important arrangements consequent upon his abandonment of Yatton; and after about an hour thus occupied, he went forth to take a solitary walk--a melancholy--a last walk about the property. It was a moment which severely tried his fortitude; but that fortitude stood the trial. He was a man of lively sensibilities, and appreciated, to its utmost extent, the melancholy and alarming change which had come over his fortunes. Surely even the bluntest and coarsest feelings which ever tried to disguise and dignify themselves under the name of STOICISM--to convert into bravery, and fortitude, a stupid, sullen insensibility--must have been not a little shaken by such scenes as Mr. Aubrey had had to pass through during the last few weeks--scenes which I do not choose to distress the reader's feelings by dwelling upon in detail. Mr. Aubrey had no mean pretensions to real philosophy; but he had still juster pretensions to an infinitely higher character,--that of a CHRISTIAN. He had a firm unwavering conviction that whatever befell him, either of good or evil, was by the ordination of the Almighty--infinitely Wise, infinitely Good;--and this was the source of his fortitude and resignation. He felt himself here standing upon ground which was immovable.