Though we have not mentioned the grief of the Countess for her only brother's death, owing to the greater and more distracting woe of Lady Florence's engaging our attention, it must not be inferred from thence she did not deeply and long feel her irreparable loss. After her husband and children, there was no living being who had so entwined himself round the young mother's heart as her brother had ever done. She had had, it might be said, his entire moral education in her training from a child; he had grown a credit to his mistress, besides combining all, in his appearance and manners, that most captivates woman's heart. She was at once proud and delighted with her pupil:--proud to see her careful and painstaking bringing up had been so well developed, and exceeded her highest expectations; delighted to see how he reflected credit on her family; and, most of all, found an anxious well-wisher in her husband. But alas for early promise! alas for youthful hopes! The pride of her eyes, the idol of her heart, had been rudely snatched away. All her long watching,--just when the plant was beginning to reflect glory on its trainer,--had proved in vain. The child of so many prayers had early been called hence; his sun had gone down whilst it was yet day; in the very spring of its sunshine, at the very hour when his rays were most cherished, the eclipse had come on and the Countess felt a double pang in thus losing not only her brother, but as it were her son,--for so she almost regarded him. Her father, too, was an object of solicitude; he had lost the prop of his old age, his only surviving son; and so heavily had the loss fallen on him, it seemed as if he too would soon follow the light of his eyes to the tomb.