“Yes, indeed, sir,” answered the boy; “father, when he was a-dying, bade God bless us, and prayed that if grandfather lived he might send him to support us.” “Where did they lay my boy?” said Edwards. “In the Old Churchyard,” replied the woman, “hard by his mother.” “I will show it you,” answered the boy, “for I have wept over it many a time when first I came amongst strange folks.” He took the old man’s hand, Harley laid hold of his sister’s, and they walked in silence to the churchyard. There was an old stone, with the corner broken off, and some letters, half-covered with moss, to denote the names of the dead: there was a cyphered R. E. plainer than the rest; it was the tomb they sought. “Here it is, grandfather,” said the boy. Edwards gazed upon it without uttering a word: the girl, who had only sighed before, now wept outright; her brother sobbed, but he stifled his sobbing. “I have told sister,” said he, “that she should not take it so to heart; she can knit already, and I shall soon be able to dig, we shall not starve, sister, indeed we shall not, nor shall grandfather neither.” The girl cried afresh; Harley kissed off her tears as they flowed, and wept between every kiss. CHAPTER XXXVI. HE RETURNS HOME.—A DESCRIPTION OF HIS RETINUE. IT was with some difficulty that Harley prevailed on the old man to leave the spot where the remains of his son were laid. At last, with the assistance of the school-mistress, he prevailed; and she accommodated Edwards and him with beds in her house, there being nothing like an inn nearer than the distance of some miles. In the morning Harley persuaded Edwards to come with the children to his house, which was distant but a short day’s journey. The boy walked in his grandfather’s hand; and the name of Edwards procured him a neighbouring farmer’s horse, on which a servant mounted, with the girl on a pillow before him. With this train Harley returned to the abode of his fathers: and we cannot but think, that his enjoyment was as great as if he had arrived from the tour of Europe with a Swiss valet for his companion, and half a dozen snuff-boxes, with invisible hinges, in his pocket. But we take our ideas from sounds which folly has invented; Fashion, Bon ton, and Vertù, are the names of certain idols, to which we sacrifice the genuine pleasures of the soul: in this world of semblance, we are contented with personating happiness; to feel it is an art beyond us.