As I took my place in the carriage beside the attorney, a kind of dreamy apathy settled down on me, and I scarcely knew what was passing. I only remember the horrible shrinking sense of dread with which I recoiled from his one attempt at consolation, and the abrupt way in which he desisted, and turned to converse with the doctor. How my heart sickened as we drew near the churchyard, and I beheld the open gate that stood wide awaiting us! The dusky figures, with their mournful black cloaks, moved slowly across the snow, like spirits of some gloomy world; while the death-bell echoed in my ears, and sent a shuddering through my frame. “What is to become of the second boy?” said the clergyman, in a low whisper, but which, by some strange fatality, struck forcibly on my ear. “It's not much matter,” replied Basset, still lower; “for the present he goes home with me. Tom, I say, you come back with me to-day.” “No,” said I, boldly; “I'll go home again.” “Home!” repeated he, with a scornful laugh,--“home I And where may that be, youngster?” “For shame, Basset!” said the clergyman; “don't speak that way to him. My little man, you can't go home today. Mr. Basset will take you with him for a few days, until your late father's will is known, and his wishes respecting you.” “I'll go home, sir!” said I, but in a fainter tone, and with tears in my eyes. “Well, well! let him do so for to-day; it may relieve his poor heart. Come, Basset, I 'll take him back myself.” I clasped his hand as he spoke, and kissed it over and over. “With all my heart,” cried Basset. “I'll come over and fetch him to-morrow;” and then he added, in a lower tone, “and before that you 'll have found out quite enough to be heartily sick of your charge.” All the worthy vicar's efforts to rouse me from my stupor or interest me failed. He brought me to his house, where, amid his own happy children, he deemed my heart would have yielded to the sympathy of my own age. But I pined to get back; I longed--why, I knew not--to be in my own little chamber, alone with my grief. In vain he tried every consolation his kind heart and his life's experience had taught him; the very happiness I witnessed but reminded me of my own state, and I pressed the more eagerly to return. It was late when he drew up to the door of the house, to which already the closed window shutters had given a look of gloom and desertion. We knocked several times before any one came, and at length two or three heads appeared at an upper window, in half-terror at the unlooked-for summons for admission. “Good-by, my dear boy!” said the vicar, as he kissed me; “don't forget what I have been telling you. It will make you bear your present sorrow better, and teach you to be happier when it is over.” “Come down to the kitchen, alannah!” said the old cook, as the hall door closed; “come down and sit with us there. Sure it 's no wonder your heart 'ud be low.”