not
have him back, he is so happy now."

Just as his father had done when she tried to comfort him, so Grey did.
He made a gesture for her to stop, and said piteously:

"Please don't talk to me now, I cannot bear it;" so she sat down again
beside him, while he continued to nurse the bitter thoughts crowding so
fast upon him:

Was his grandfather happy now? Was it well with him in the world to
which he had gone? he kept asking himself over and over again all that
dreary day and the drearier night which followed, and which left him
whiter, sadder, if possible, than ever.

The funeral was appointed for half past two on Saturday afternoon, and
Burton, who went over in the morning, asked Grey to go with him.

"Your Aunt Hannah will expect you. She was disappointed in not seeing
you yesterday," but Grey said promptly:

"No, I'll wait, and go with mother."

So Mr. Jerrold went alone with Lucy, leaving his wife and Grey to join
him about half past one, just before the neighbors began to assemble.
When Grey came in, Hannah, who was already draped in her mourning robe
which Lucy had provided for her, went up to him, and putting her arms
around him, said, very low and gently, but with no sadness in the tone:

"Oh, Grey, I am so glad you have come and sorry you are suffering so
from headache, but I know just how you loved him and how he loved
you--better than anything else in the world. Will you come with me and
see him now? He looks so calm and peaceful and happy, just as you never
saw him look."

"Oh, no, no!" Grey cried, wrenching himself from her. "I cannot see him;
don't ask me, please."

"Not see your grandfather who loved you so much? Oh, Grey!" Hannah
exclaimed, with both wonder and reproach in her voice. "I want you to
remember him as he looks now, so different from what he was in life."

"But I cannot," Grey said, "I never saw any one dead; I cannot bear it,"
and going from her he took a seat in the kitchen as far as possible from
the bedroom which held so much horror for him.

He knew his grandfather was not there, for he was lying in his coffin in
the front room, where Lucy Grey had put the flowers brought from the
conservatory at Grey's Park. But the _other one_ was there, under the
floor where he had lain for thirty-one years, and Grey was thinking of
_him_, wondering who he was and if no inquiries had ever been made for
him. The room was a haunted place for him, and he was glad the door was
closed, and