Uffington, whose character everybody knew, and whose history had better not be inquired into. Poor Forestfield had behaved like an angel--angels are not expected to be worldly-wise--and it was the best possible thing for him. Mrs. Chadwick was genuinely sorry and pitiful; she loved life herself, she hated the mere idea of death, and kept it away from her by every means in her power. In health, wealth, strength, and the full enjoyment of life, she felt a sort of physical compassion for the young woman who had had to go down into the darkness and silence of the grave; and she had liked Lady Forestfield. But Mrs. Chadwick kept these sentiments to herself when she met Mrs. Hamblin, and her like; was ready to acknowledge that 'perhaps, after all, considering her hopeless loss of position,' &c.; and by the end of the week was impatient with Eleanor for her overwhelming grief; and inclined to resent its evidence in the girl's tears and seclusion as an injury to herself. 'What a singular fascination there is for some men in the mere fact of a woman having lost her character,' said Mrs. Hamblin to Frank Eardley one morning in the melancholy week. The two had met on the new pier at Brighton, and the gentleman had failed in an attempt to pass the lady without stopping to speak. 'I have just seen Mr. Pratt going into Mrs. Chadwick's house, and looking as melancholy as if he had lost his adoring and adored mamma, the "madre mia" of that charming sonnet you used to quiz so kindly. I suppose he's going to the Forestfield funeral.' 'He is, Mrs. Hamblin, and so am I. I must wish you good-morning.' 'You too. It will be quite a demonstration. What a lesson to _nous autres!_ I Henceforth we shall know exactly what are those virtues which "smell sweet and blossom in the dust." Good-morning.' Not in the gloomy mausoleum in the Highland country, where the noble remains of the Stortfords lie, encased in lead and oak, in velvet and gilding, did they lay May Forestfield; nor was her grave made with the men and women of her husband's race. On a bright calm day, when the wintry air was still, and the sky was high and blue, the little train of friends followed her coffin to Kensal Green. Lord Forestfield behaved with perfect propriety on the solemn occasion. His demeanour was as correct as his dress. When the temporary slab had been laid upon the grave, Sir Nugent Uffington placed a wreath of violets and a cross of white camellias upon the stone--they were Eleanor's tribute. Then he and Frank Eardley regained their carriage in silence, which was hardly broken until they reached town.