of the place, always grumbling, for once
owned that Providence had dealt impartially
with the rich as well as themselves,
and drew a better lesson to that effect than
they had ever done from the teachings of
the Reverend Dr. Bailey.

That clergyman, as it was a vast occasion
to which he wished to rise, put himself
to the trouble of writing a mortuary sermon,
"brand new," for the occasion, in which he
seemed to grow so juicy about the eyes,
and scorbutic in his cheeks, that he looked
an undertaker in a surplice. In that
crowded church he addressed hostile and
expostulatory questions to the great King
of Terror and to the graves he digs, as if to
his own maid-servant, and dwelt sonorously
on the station Laura would have adorned.
Her noble and spreading lands, her
"pageantry of palaces"—where were they all
now? Her grieving father, who was present,
utterly prostrated and broken with the
shock, was too much absorbed in his mind
to see anything that was exaggerated in the
statement, that "he"—Dr. Bailey—"knew
her young heart, every corner of it," and
that in the course of his professional
"spiritual ministrations," his guidance of that
matchless young creature had made him
as familiar with her mind as he was with
his own. But what was he to say to those
she had left behind? Nothing, nothing,
nothing! which, with a strange contradiction,
reached to nearly a quarter of an hour's
expatiation, pointed at the bereaved father.

The funeral was indeed magnificent, a
monument of grief and costliness, Messrs.
Hodman, the well-known entrepreneurs of
such shows in town, exerting themselves to
their best. All the foolish ostentation in
which Death revels, when the rich are
concerned, was nobly displayed. Mr. Hodman,
who attended in person, was heard to say,
"that he had not got to bed for two nights."
Sir Charles was indeed the class of mourner
for whom it was worth while making an
exertion. "None of your peddling, 'estimate'
sort of fellers," said Mr. Hodman, "who
will call you into their front parlour, and,
with the poor remains lying cold up-stairs,
will go on a 'aggling with you."

On this morning there was a surprise
for the sailors of the port, who found that
the Almandine, so long familiar to their
eyes, had stolen back like some spectral
ship. The actors in the drama rubbed
their eyes, as they looked from their
windows and saw the apparition, and appeared
to find some mysterious connexion between
that yacht and the young and glittering
craft, all snowy sails and gay fluttering
flags, which had glided away out on the
vast ocean of eternity, and which would
never return into that port. No such
transcendental associations occurred to
the doctor, who merely said: "God bless
me! that boat back again! But quite
proper. Nice good feeling and attention
on the young man's part. Brought his
yacht here, all the way, for the funeral!"
Then the dismal ceremonial began. There
was one figure that attracted the crowds
that thronged the pews and galleries
of the church—a thin, worn, haggard,
wild-eyed creature, whose strange and
almost ghastly air was rendered even more
remarkable by his exaggerated black dress.
Some of the young girls of the place, who
had taken the deepest interest in the whole
affair, turned away from him in terror
—from eyes whose glances every now and
again seemed to dart from side to side, as
if seeking something, to settle at last on
a retired corner of the gallery, where they
seemed to probe, and even stab, fiercely,
until, at last, other faces were attracted,
and looked in the same direction. There
was seen a pale face, a figure bent low on
its knees, and lips moving in prayer. At
lunch and dinner that day, the association
of gossips wondered and wondered again
why Jessica Bailey had deserted her family,
and sought that obscure corner. A solution
was soon hit upon, by an elderly
gentleman paying a visit. "It was shocking,"
he said, "to see such vindictiveness even
in presence of the dead. To think that
Bailey's daughter would not be seen in her
public place at the funeral of one she
disliked, but skulked away in a corner!" This
was the charitable construction put on the
matter, which those beside her, who saw
her hands clasped convulsively, and her lips
moving in prayer, might have found quite
inconsistent. Her eyes followed the dark
figures moving below, and the black-draped
bier, whereon the poor lost heiress of Panton
lay—and by what agency? The long
combat that had begun at school was ended
there; and a voice, she could not be
deaf to, was always in her ear, whispering,
hoarsely, not only that the victory
was hers, but that she had won it by
her own act. She saw the procession
trail out to the graveyard, and could not
bring herself to rise up and follow it. Then
the doctor went through his service; and
in a new vault the young creature of such
hopes, and life, and brightness, was put to
rest.

The doctor had done his part, in an
extra impressive way, which he kept for