on Recorder"; but never a volume of poetry
anywhere. I became a devourer of books which I could not digest, and
their influence located in my mind curious and inconsistent relations
between facts and ideas.

My music lessons in Milford were my only task. I remained inapt, while
Veronica played better and better; when I saw her fingers interpreting
her feelings, touching the keys of the piano as if they were the
chords of her thoughts, practice by note seemed a soulless, mechanical
effort, which I would not make. One day mother and I were reading the
separate volumes of charming Miss Austen's "Mansfield Park," when a
message arrived from Aunt Mercy, with the news of Grand'ther Warren's
dangerous illness. Mother dropped her book on the floor, but I turned
down the leaf where I was reading. She went to Barmouth immediately,
and the next day grand'ther died. He gave all he had to Aunt Mercy,
except six silver spoons, which he directed the Barmouth silversmith
to make for Caroline, who was now married to her missionary. Mother
came home to prepare for the funeral. When the bonnets, veils, and
black gloves came home, Veronica declared she would not go. As she had
been allowed to stay away from Grand'ther Warren living, why should
she be forced to go to him when dead? She was so violent in her
opposition that mother ordered Temperance to keep her in her room.
Father tried to persuade her, but she grew white, and trembled so that
he told her she should stay at home. While we were gone she sent her
bonnet to the Widow Smith's daughter, who appeared in the Poor Seats
wearing it, on the very Sunday after the funeral, when we all went
to church in our mourning to make the discovery, which discomposed us
exceedingly.

All the church were present at grand'ther's funeral,--obsequies, as
Mr. Boold called it, who exalted his character and behavior so greatly
in his discourse that his nearest friends would not have recognized
him, although everybody knew that he was a good man. Mr. Boold
expatiated on his tenderness and delicate appreciation, and his
study of the feelings and wants of others, till he was moved to tears
himself by the picture he drew. I thought of the pigeons he had shot,
and of the summary treatment he gave me--of his coldness and silence
toward Aunt Mercy, and my eyes remained dry; but mother and Aunt Mercy
wept bitterly. After it was over, and they had gone back to the empty
house, they removed their heavy bonnets, k