rom him.

I attended him through the middle parlour, endeavouring to console him.
His lady was there in agonies. She took his eye. He made a motion
towards her: O my dear, said he--But turning short, his eyes as full as
his heart, he hastened through to the great parlour: and when there, he
desired me to leave him to himself.

The uncles and sister looked and turned away, very often, upon the
emblems, in silent sorrow. Mrs. Hervey would have read to them the
inscription--These words she did read, Here the wicked cease from
troubling--But could read no farther. Her tears fell in large drops upon
the plate she was contemplating; and yet she was desirous of gratifying a
curiosity that mingled impatience with her grief because she could not
gratify it, although she often wiped her eyes as they flowed.

Judge you, Mr. Belford, (for you have great humanity,) how I must be
affected. Yet was I forced to try to comfort them all.

But here I will close this letter, in order to send it to you in the
morning early. Nevertheless, I will begin another, upon supposition that
my doleful prolixity will be disagreeable to you. Indeed I am altogether
indisposed for rest, as I have mentioned before. So can do nothing but
write. I have also more melancholy scenes to paint. My pen, if I may
say so, is untired. These scenes are fresh upon my memory: and I myself,
perhaps, may owe to you the favour of a review of them, with such other
papers as you shall think proper to oblige me with, when heavy grief has
given way to milder melancholy.

My servant, in his way to you with this letter, shall call at St. Alban's
upon the good woman, that he may inform you how she does. Miss Arabella
asked me after her, when I withdrew to my chamber; to which she
complaisantly accompanied me. She was much concerned at the bad way we
left her in; and said her mother would be more so.

No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse that would fall
to the lot of this unhappy family when they came to have the news of her
death confirmed to them, was so grieved for their apprehended grief, and
endeavoured to comfort them by her posthumous letters. But it was still
a greater generosity in her to try to excuse them to me, as she did when
we were alone together, a few hours before she died; and to aggravate
more than (as far as I can find) she ought to have done, the only error
she was ever guilty of. The more freely, however, perhaps, (ex