place, and that we might give ourselves
over to universal riot and breakage—which
we did accordingly.

The morning went on, and we heard
nothing. First, because no one felt bound
to offer us the courtesy of an explanation,
and naturally enough thought we had no
need of it; and, secondly, because so long
as we were assured of liberty and relaxed
discipline, we were not inclined to be too
nice on the point. I am bound to say, it
was to the bursting importance of a superior
intelligence that we at last owed the news.
For Miss Simpson, restless and swelling
with importance, could not long restrain
herself, and imparted the cause of the
commotion. The man on the horse, who had
long since ridden away, was an "express"
from the country.

"Come here, Jane, come here. You, sir,
come here, and be serious for a moment.
Let that chair alone. I declare if he hasn't
cracked the leg—" Thus grouped we
listened.

A dreadful and unexpected business had
taken place. It was slowly and impressively
broken to us. Miss Simpson began:
"Death was a dreadful and an awful thing.
We must all submit to it, the highest as
well as the lowest—there was no escape.
Even Lady Jane Mortimer opposite, who
drove the lovely greys." Adopting the
more immediate illustration, entirely to the
prejudice of what it was meant to illustrate,
I instinctively turned to look out of the
window, and see the spectacle alluded to,
which for me had an exquisite charm. On
this I was dragged rudely round, and told,
as usual, that I would end disgracefully.
But the point of the whole was this: our
dear great uncle, of whom we had often
heard our good mamma speak, one of the
best of men (my eyes were widening with
wonder, who could it be?), the kind friend
who was so thoughtful, who used to send
up the hampers at Christmas (now I knew),
had gone, had left this weary world,—and
we would never, never see him again!—a
prospect, considering that I had never yet
seen him, which did not affect me much.
But I had logic enough to see that his
departure would materially affect the
recurring hampers.

But we little anticipated the surprises of
that most dramatic day. There was advice
and consultation with Mr. John; his
suggestions were received with docility and
respect. I caught those words of his:
"The captain would be home at nine
o'clock, please God, and then we'd know.
Don't, don't worry yourself ma'am, and
we'll all come right in time." Then
arrived Mr. Bickers, who on occasions of
moral crises was as indispensable, and came
up the stairs in the same way, as the great
family doctor in an illness. He had been
sent for, and he came, as it were,
professionally. All that day he was on the
premises, walking up and down the room,
drinking sherry, declaiming, giving advice,
generally speaking, as to himself and his
advice, not worth a rush. He read out,
"A fine passage, ma'am," from Bowdler's
sermons, which I was sent for to listen to.
"The great leveller, ma'am," he was
saying as I entered "the scythe, the scythe,
ma'am! Well, sir, how do you feel now
under the valley of the shadow? Have
you come to that chapter in your
catechism?"

"Indeed, Mr. Bickers, I am sorry to say
he seems very little alive to the awful
visitation that has occurred. There is a
sort of levity about him that is
incomprehensible. But it will break on him at last.
How fine the words of the burial service.
Ah!"

Here entered my two sisters, who were
composed, amiable little hypocrites! to a
decent and subdued bearing. There was
apparent even such hasty tributes of respect
to the deceased, as a black ribbon tied
round their waists in an enormous bow.
This was of course provisional, en attendant
a more organised display of grief which
Miss Simpson was at this moment
purchasing at a shop.

"Nothing could have been nicer," I
heard it whispered to Mr. Bickers, "than
the behaviour of those girls. I assure you
women of fifty would not have shown more
sorrow."

It occurred to me that people at that
time of life would have exhibited less; and
if I had not been living under penal laws,
I should perhaps have ventured on the
remark; but at this moment I already saw
the artist who had made the famous green
frock crossing the street, and coming up
our steps with an air of recognition. He
had seen me, and pleasantly imitated, in a
sort of pantomime, the art of measurement.
Mr. Bickers was at that moment sonorously
expatiating on "the fine passage" in the
burial service, to which the little ladies, so
well brought up, were listening, I fear,
with only the respect of unintelligence,
when the spectacle of the arriving artist
seemed to me of such overwhelming
importance, and was so dramatic, that I burst