s softly closed, and the
gentleman, whose name we may here mention was Harrenburn, conducted
Conrad across the hall, and up stairs to an apartment on the second
storey, having a southern aspect. The proportions of the house were
noble. The wide entrance-hall was boldly tesselated with white and
black marble; the staircase was large enough for a procession of
giants; the broad oaken stairs were partly covered with thick, rich
carpet; fine pictures, in handsome frames, decorated the walls; and
whenever they happened in their ascent to pass an opened door, Conrad
could see that the room within was superbly furnished. To the poor
painter, these evidences of opulence and taste seemed to have
something of the fabulous about them. The house was good enough for a
monarch; and to find a private gentleman of neither rank nor title
living in such splendour, was what he should never have expected. Mr
Harrenburn placed his finger on his lips, as he opened the door of the
chamber already indicated; Conrad followed him in with stealthy steps
and suppressed breath. The room was closely curtained, and a couple of
night-lights shed their feeble and uncertain rays upon the objects
within it. The height of the apartment, and the absorbing complexion
of the dark oaken wainscot, here and there concealed by falls of
tapestry, served to render such an illumination extremely inefficient.
But Conrad knew that this must be the chamber of death, even before he
was able to distinguish that an apparently light and youthful figure
lay stretched upon the bed--still, motionless, impassive, as death
alone can be. Two women, dressed in dark habiliments--lately nurses of
the sick, now watchers over the dead--rose from their seats, and
retired silently to a distant corner of the room as Mr Harrenburn and
Conrad entered. Where does the poor heart suffer as it does in the
chamber of the dead, where lies, as in this instance, the corpse of a
beloved daughter? A hundred objects, little thought of heretofore,
present themselves, and by association with the lost one, assume a
power over the survivor. The casual objects of everyday life rise up
and seize a place in the fancy and memory, and, become invested with
deep, passionate interest, as relics of the departed. There is the
dress which lately so well became her; there the little shoes in which
she stepped so lightly and gracefully; there the book which she was
reading only yesterday, the satin ribbon still bet