heaping up riches without object, without honour
and without profit. And yet there was a romance
in the old man's youth—a little love-story which
was touching in its simple truth. You are going
to hear how I found it out.

A few days after the funeral, Mr. Worsley
called my attention to the necessity I was under
of examining my uncle's private papers, which
he had kept apart in a bureau in his bedroom;
and one wet morning, immediately after breakfast,
I set myself to the task, having first ordered
a fire to be lighted, and the heavy piece of
furniture to be moved into convenient proximity to
it. I found them to consist chiefly of letters
and memoranda of family interest, entirely
disconnected with business; and the first thing
upon which I laid my hands was a packet of my
own notes in acknowledgment of the paltry
pension he allowed our dear mother during the four
years preceding her death. I separated them
and cast them on the fire: I am one of those
people who destroy lumber—especially
sentimental lumber. The next was a bulky parcel
bound round and sealed within a strip of parchment.
It consisted of letters, on the outer fold
of which was written the name and the date of
each. They were about forty in number, and
were arranged in numerical sequence. I smiled
as I severed the strip of parchment, saying to
myself, that my uncle must have anticipated
somebody was lying in wait to write his
biography, and so had got the material ready to
his hands; but I was interested, and carefully
arranging the mass, I began my task by taking
each letter as it came.

The first was labelled in a clear female hand:
"From dear Benjamin, at Shrewsbury School,
1804." It was a thorough schoolboy's letter to
a mother who loved him; less formal than such
documents are when overlooked, and worse spelt,
but more frank-hearted and affectionate. The
writer was in some tribulation with his masters
about his non-application to classical learning,
and wished his mother to plead with his father
that the bent of his education might be changed.
It closed with a sort of calendar of the days up
to the midsummer holidays. The second was:
"From Ben to his sister Hetty." It was in
scrupulous round hand, profuse in capitals, and
illustrated with grotesque pen-and-ink sketches
of boys' games for the amusement of a child.
The artist had flattered neither himself nor his
companions, but sister Hetty must have chuckled
over the pictures with exquisite delight. I
laughed over the discoloured paper myself, and
felt irresistibly softened towards Uncle Burfield.
Once upon a time, that fossilised gold-gatherer
had cherished kind family affections. Then came
a document written on a sheet of sermon-paper:
"From my Father at Dene Parsonage, 1804."
The mother had spoken to the father for her son,
and here was the answer to that plea. Benjamin
was reminded of the exertions that had been
made at home to give him an education for the
ministry, and exhorted to persevere. A few
lines in the same strain, but more tender, had
been added by his mother, and at the end sister
Hetty sent him kisses. I pictured to myself the
lad's impatient disappointment in reading all
that vexatious good advice; and then took up the
next letter: "From my dear Mother. The
news of my Father's Death. Dene Parsonage,
1808." It was very sorrowful—spoke of poverty,
of leaving the home of her married life and the
birthplace of her children, almost complainingly;
spoke of her husband with wifely tenderness,
respect, and regret. Benjamin must leave school
and go to her. " My dear son, though you are
but a boy, I place all my reliance on your generous
and affectionate disposition," she wrote;
and then went on to say how the plan for his
entering the ministry must be given up from
lack of means to send him to college. She
trusted the Almighty Father to raise up friends
to her children, and her heart ached for a sight
of her darling boy. In the next, the poor
mother.' s heart had ceased aching and hoping for
ever. Orphan sister Hetty wrote to Orphan
brother Ben a Christmas letter to cheer him in
his " dreadful dull lodging all alone in Holborn."
Was he happy? Did he like his master, Mr.
Parkinson? Had he any friends in the office?
How she wished he was with her, and had some
of Miss Stock's plum-pudding, though the plums
were very scarce because of the high wind that
was blowing up at Highgate when it was made.
Should they ever, ever, ever have any more such
Christmases as the Christmases at Dene when
their father and mother were alive? She was
afraid they never should. Her dearest, dearest
love to brother Ben. That was our mother who
wrote, John—can't you fancy you hear her
tremulous, loving voice all through? I shall keep
her letters for you till you come home, for home
you must come now.

Though during that wet morning I went
through the whole long series of letters, that is
no reason why they should be inflicted in
continuity upon you—a brief selection will be enough
to show you what our Uncle Burfield once was,
and how he must have changed before you knew
lim. There were three more from Hetty to her
brother at Mr. Parkinson's; still the same
affectionate spirit pervaded them, and still the two
were all in all to each other. Then I came upon
a batch of six-and-twenty letters tied together
by themselves, and bearing an inscription in my
uncle's hand: " My own letters to Anne
Cardigan; returned to me when she married William
Hatherton Gabriel, 1817."

Old love-letters, of course—the faded romance
of Mr. Burfield's life. The fascination of curiosity
drew me on to read what, perhaps, I ought to
have passed over; and yet I am glad I read them,
for they have helped me to think more kindly of
his memory. He was dry and concise enough in
his correspondence with me, but when he was
young he could write very fervently to " sweet
Anne Cardigan." She was his "bonnie love,"
"darling mouse"—a dozen foolish, fond,