ely to attend, had circumstances admitted
of it, living in distant places that rendered it inconvenient, and indeed
scarcely possible.

I passed most of the intervening time in my study, reading and indulging
in such contemplations as naturally suggest themselves to the mourner.
Lucy, dear girl, had written me two or three short notes, asking my wishes
on various points; among other things, when I wished to pay a last visit
to the body. My answer to this question brought her to my room, with some
little surprise of manner; for she had been so much with Grace, living and
dead, as to think it strange one who had loved her so well while living
should not desire to take a final look at the beautiful remains. I
explained my feelings on this head, and Lucy seemed struck with them.

"I am not sure you will not have decided wisely, Miles," she said--"the
picture being one too precious to destroy. You will be gratified in
knowing, however, that Grace resembles an angel quite as much in death as
she did in life; all who have seen her being struck with the air of
peaceful tranquillity her features now present."

"Bless you--bless you, Lucy--this is all-sufficient. I did wish for some
such assurance, and am now content."

"Several of your family are in the house, Miles, in readiness to attend
the funeral; a stranger has just arrived who seems to have some such
desire, too, though his face is unknown to all at the place. He has asked
to see you with an earnestness that my father scarce knows how to refuse."

"Let him come here, then, Lucy. I can only suppose it to be some one of
the many persons Grace has served; her short life was all activity in that
particular."

Lucy's face did not corroborate that notion; but she withdrew to let my
decision be known. In a few minutes a large, hard-featured, but not
ill-looking man approaching fifty, entered my room, walked up to me with
tears in his eyes, squeezed my hand warmly, and then seated himself
without ceremony. He was attired like a thriving countryman, though his
language, accent, and manner denoted one superior to the ordinary run of
those with whom he was otherwise associated in externals. I had to look at
him a second time ere I could recognise Jack Wallingford, my father's
bachelor cousin, the western land-holder.

"I see by your look, cousin Miles, that you only half, remember me," my
visitor remarked; "I deeply regret that I am obliged to renew our
acquaintance on so mel