arrative was given with as much modesty and brevity as time and
circumstances would admit. The coachman was despatched on one of the
best carriage-horses express to Mr Somerville, and the mail-coach was
loaded with letters to all the friends and connexions of the family.

This ended, each retired to dress for dinner. What a change had one
hour wrought in this house of mourning, now suddenly turned into a house
of joy! Alas, how often is the picture reversed in human life! The
ladies soon reappeared in spotless white, emblems of their pure minds.
My father had put off his sables, and the servants came in their usual
liveries, which were very splendid.

Dinner being announced, my father handed off Emily; I followed with my
sister. Emily, looking over her shoulder, said, "Don't be jealous,
Frank."

My father laughed, and I vowed revenge for this little satirical hit.

"You know the forfeit," said I, "and you shall pay it."

"I am happy to say that I am both able and willing," said she, and we
sat down to dinner, but not before my father had given thanks in a
manner more than usually solemn and emphatic. This essential act of
devotion, so often neglected, brought tears into the eyes of all. Emily
sank into her chair, covered her face with her pocket handkerchief, and
relieved herself with tears. Clara did the same. My father shook me by
the hand, and said, "Frank, this is a very different kind of repast to
what we had yesterday. How little did we know of the happiness that was
in store for us!"

The young ladies dried their eyes, but had lost their appetites: in vain
did Emily endeavour to manage the tail of a small smelt. I filled a
glass of wine to each. "Come," said I, "in sea phrase, spirits are
always more easily stowed away than dry provisions; let us drink each
other's health, and then we shall get on better."

They took my advice, and it answered the purpose. Our repast was
cheerful, but tempered and corrected by a feeling of past sorrow, and a
deep sense of great mercies from Heaven.

"If Heaven were every day like this,
Then 'twere indeed a Heaven of bliss."

Reader, I know you have long thought me a vain man--a profligate,
unprincipled Don Juan, ready to pray when in danger, and to sin when out
of it; but as I have always told you the truth, even when my honour and
character were at stake, I expect you will believe me now, when I say a
word in my own favour. That I felt gratitude to Go