as he still is, but I felt surprised at his
extreme reserve. It may not be his ordinary
manner, however, for I overheard Mrs.
Crawford ask him if he were ill, and he
confessed to being tired.

April the first,—My visit at Burnshead is
over, and on Saturday I go to Ashby-on-the
hill. Emily tells me she has set her heart on
it; so, with one or two qualms, I have
consented to please her: but it will be a great
pleasure to me, too. I drove into
Stockbridge a day or two since, and made a call
upon Miss Thoroton, She begins to be quite
decrepit, and her hand shakes almost as if
she were stricken with the palsy. Her
memory is failing her too, because she spoke
of Miss Alice as " a poor dear girl,"— "a
clever, high-spirited creature, whom I
educated, my dear, and who died abroad," and
then she repeated the story of her death
and burial very minutely— but as if Alice had
been a favourite, instead of the butt of all her
persecutions. I thought it was as well to keep
her in that frame of mind, and I told her in
how desolate and neglected a condition I had
found her grave. " Ah! did you put her a
wreath of everlastings on it! There are
everlastings on graves— graves— what were we
talking about?" she began to maunder in a
pitiable helpless way; at last, she cried with
energy! " I would have asked her forgiveness
if she had lived: I did not like her,
and I believe I did wrong by her. I know I
said what was not true, and it has been on
my conscience a long while. So she is buried
at Brussels; very strange — Brussels! I was
once in that cemetery. I should wish to
go— " and then she became quite indistinct
and babbling again. Miss Smallwood came
in while I was there, and made a pitiable
statement of her affairs. She said the old
school was all gone to pieces; she had but
three pupils; and one of them had never
paid anything for two years. She looked
very gaunt and shabby, but I did not see
that I could do her any good; certainly, I
cannot recommend her school; I do not
think her fitted to have the sole charge of
children, she is so extremely harsh and
unpleasant in her manner. When she was
going away she signed to me to speak to
her outside the room, and then asked me
to lend her five pounds. I was very glad
to give it to her to soothe my conscience
for thinking so ill of her.

April the fifth, Ashly-on-the-Hill.— I have
been here with the Camerons three days, and
shall leave on Thursday. They are very
happy, and have two of the dearest little
children—a boy, Herbert, and a girl, Eleanor.
Herbert is a very fine fellow— said to be
more like his great grandfather Clay than any
branch of the family that has appeared
since him. Emily has a sensible, nice way
with her children. They are both rather
wilful and headstrong; but she can be so
quietly firm, and yet withal so kind, that there
is never the sound of a dispute in the house .
Hugh Cameron has found a great treasure
in her, and they are both extremely liked at
Ashby. Mr. Herbert Clay is absent in
London on his parliamentary duties, and will
not be down again until the Easter recess. I
have met old Mrs. Clay several times, but her
manner is just as lacking in cordiality to me
as it always was. She cannot hide her bitter
dislike.

April the sixth.— A terrible event occurred
to-day! Emily was at the school, and Hugh
gone over the hill to Deanswalk, when Mrs.
Clay arrived at the rectory. I thought she
looked very wild and bewildered when she
came into the drawing-room where I was
sitting, and her face was quite suffused, but
at first I imagined she had over-heated
herself by walking fast. She rested on the sofa,
and loosed her bonnet. I had only turned
away a moment to pick up something
belonging to my work, when I heard a gurgling,
struggling noise, and on looking hastily
up, I saw that she was in a fit. I rang the
bell and the servant came in, and laid her on
the couch, and the gardener ran for the
doctor. Mrs. Clay had not altogether lost
consciousness, and she had taken a convulsive
grip of my hand which I could not extricate.
She rolled her eyes fearfully, and muttered
detached sentences, in which her son's name
was often repeated, but I could not make
out any sense. The doctor presently arrived,
and Hugh and Emily came home, and she was
carried to a bed; but she never revived, and
to-night, about seven o'clock, she died. A
death so sudden and painful has been a
terrible shock to Emily. Hugh entreats me not
to leave her at present, and if I can be either
use or comfort to her I shall be glad to stay.
Herbert has been written to to come down
immediately, but we cannot expect him before
to-morrow evening.

April the seventh.— Herbert Clay arrived
late last night, and is much affected by the
manner of his mother's death. He is anxious
and miserable that she should have had no
warning, as he calls it,— no time for preparation.
Hugh Cameron looks serious, and bids
him leave her cause in God's hands, now we
can help her nothing. Emily weeps pitiably.
What a strange, strange thing this death in
a house is! We go stealthily by the closed
door where the dust lies, as if our natural
step could disturbe it. We speak in
whispers, as if our natural tone would
wake it. With what awe we look on
the vacant mask of clay, whose animating
spirit has already stood face to face with
God, and learnt the great mystery and
secret of death! The mystery and secret we
shall learn ourselves, anon. I paused on the
mat outside the door, to-night, on my way to
bed, and listened. I think there is no hush
like the hush that pervades the air where a
corpse lies. I had my hand on the handle to
go in, but at the remembrance of how she