* * * * * One morning, about a week after our meeting with the handsome soldier, I was a good deal affected by witnessing from my window the simple procession which was passing. The atmosphere was dense and heavy, while the rain fell in torrents on the heads of the mourners, and the wind whistled mournfully among the trees. "There goes a poor soldier to his last home," said my maid, who happened to be sitting in the room with me. "He hears it not, poor fellow!" said I, "nor wind nor weather can disturb him more!" As they passed on slowly by my window, I observed that the funeral was attended by one of the officers of the Tenth Hussars, to which regiment the dead soldier had been attached. I looked again. It was the Marquis of Worcester, and then I recollected his having mentioned something to me, in the morning, about having a soldier's funeral to attend. His lordship looked unusually melancholy, and for my part, though I always considered this a mournful sight, I had never been so affected by a soldier's funeral until now. "It is the dull weather which disorders our nerves," said I, brushing away a tear. "What is all this to me? Men must die, and worms will eat them." I was going from the window, when my attention was arrested by the sight of a wild, beautiful, young female, who rushed on towards the coffin. Her hair was dishevelled, and her eyes so swollen with tears, that one could but guess at what might, perhaps, be their natural lustre. Will Haught at this moment brought in my breakfast. "Do you know anything about this funeral, or that poor young female who has just followed it?" said I to him. "It is the beautiful young soldier, who died two days ago of a brain fever, madam. That girl's name is Mary Keats. She was his sweetheart, and he loved her better than any of them great ladies as used to make so much fuss of him." This man had stood before me, with all his god-like beauty but a few days past! Methought I yet saw that mantling blush, and the fine expressive curve of that quivering lip! Feeling the tears again rushing to my eyes, I ran out of the room. When I returned to the drawing-room, Lord Worcester was sitting in a very melancholy attitude, leaning on his hand. "What are you thinking about?" I asked. "Why, I was considering, suppose it were my next turn to be cut off thus suddenly in the flower of my youth, that I should not like it!" There was something so very comical and natural about what Worcester said that, melancholy as I was, and little as his speech seems of the risible kind, it certainly much amused me for an instant. His lordship looked at me in surprise, and declared that he was astonished at my want of feeling. I assured him, with truth, that I had been most particularly shocked by Will Haught's account of the young soldier's death.