formal part of his mission; but
communicated immediately with a fashionable undertaker, and gave orders
for a very genteel funeral. He thought after the funeral that Philip
would be in a less excited state of mind, and more likely to hear
reason; he, therefore, deferred a second interview with the orphan till
after that event; and, in the meanwhile, despatched a letter to Mr.
Beaufort, stating that he had attended to his instructions; that the
orders for the funeral were given; but that at present Mr. Philip
Morton's mind was a little disordered, and that he could not calmly
discuss the plans for the future suggested by Mr. Beaufort. He did
not doubt, however, that in another interview all would be arranged
according to the wishes his client had so nobly conveyed to him. Mr.
Beaufort's conscience on this point was therefore set at rest. It was
a dull, close, oppressive morning, upon which the remains of Catherine
Morton were consigned to the grave. With the preparations for the
funeral Philip did not interfere; he did not inquire by whose orders all
that solemnity of mutes, and coaches, and black plumes, and crape bands,
was appointed. If his vague and undeveloped conjecture ascribed this
last and vain attention to Robert Beaufort, it neither lessened the
sullen resentment he felt against his uncle, nor, on the other hand, did
he conceive that he had a right to forbid respect to the dead, though he
might reject service for the survivor. Since Mr. Blackwell's visit, he
had remained in a sort of apathy or torpor, which seemed to the people
of the house to partake rather of indifference than woe.

The funeral was over, and Philip had returned to the apartments occupied
by the deceased; and now, for the first time, he set himself to examine
what papers, &c., she had left behind. In an old escritoire, he found,
first, various packets of letters in his father's handwriting, the
characters in many of them faded by time. He opened a few; they were
the earliest love-letters. He did not dare to read above a few lines; so
much did their living tenderness, and breathing, frank, hearty passion,
contrast with the fate of the adored one. In those letters, the very
heart of the writer seemed to beat! Now both hearts alike were stilled!
And GHOST called vainly unto GHOST!

He came, at length, to a letter in his mother's hand, addressed to
himself, and dated two days before her death. He went to the window and
gasped in the mists of th