of agony and grief. O God! it was the
death-wail! I fell upon my knees, my hands clasped in agony; the sweat
of misery dropped off my brow, and with a heart bleeding and breaking I
prayed--I know not what. Again the terrible cry smote upon my ear, and I
could mark the horrible cadences of the death-song, as the voices of the
mourners joined in chorus.

My suspense became too great to bear. I dashed madly forward, one sound
still ringing in my ears, one horrid image before my eyes. I reached the
garden wall; I cleared the little rivulet beside the flower-garden; I
traversed its beds (neglected and decayed); I gained the avenue, taking
no heed of the crowds before me,--some on foot, some on horseback, others
mounted upon the low country car, many seated in groups upon the grass,
their heads bowed upon their bosoms, silent and speechless. As I neared the
house the whole approach was crowded with carriages and horsemen. At the
foot of the large flight of steps stood the black and mournful hearse,
its plumes nodding in the breeze. With the speed of madness and the
recklessness of despair I tore my way through the thickly standing groups
upon the steps; I could not speak, I could not utter. Once more the
frightful cry swelled upward, and in its wild notes seemed to paralyze me;
for with my hands upon my temples, I stood motionless and still. A heavy
footfall as of persons marching in procession came nearer and nearer, and
as the sounds without sank into sobs of bitterness and woe, the black pall
of a coffin, borne on men's shoulders, appeared at the door, and an old man
whose gray hair floated in the breeze, and across whose stern features a
struggle for self-mastery--a kind of spasmodic effort--was playing, held
out his hand to enforce silence. His eye, lack-lustre and dimmed with age,
roved over the assembled multitude, but there was no recognition in his
look until at last he turned it on me. A slight hectic flush colored his
pale cheek, his lip trembled, he essayed to speak, but could not. I sprang
towards him, but choked by agony, I could not utter; my look, however,
spoke what my tongue could not. He threw his arms around me, and muttering
the words, "Poor Godfrey!" pointed to the coffin.

CHAPTER XLIII.

HOME.

Many, many years have passed away since the time I am now about to speak
of, and yet I cannot revert, even for a moment, to the period without a sad
and depressing feeling at my heart. The wreck of fo