Mr. Bergan, meanwhile, had gone over to the Hall, partly to give a regretful look at his brother's dead face, and partly to have some further talk with Bergan. Thick-growing memories beset¹ him, at every step of the way; and, the goal being reached, he had ample opportunity to reflect upon the sin and folly² of family feuds³, the miserably⁴ thin barriers which suffice to keep apart those who ought to be one in affection and interest, as in blood. He had not been very much to blame for their erection between him and his brother, but he regretted none the less that he had not wrought⁵ more perseveringly⁶ and lovingly to break them down. There had always been a generous side to Harry's character, which might have been successfully appealed to, at least in the earlier stages of the quarrel; his own influence might have been exerted for good; the dreary⁷, empty Hall might still have been a pleasant home; this lonely death-couch might have been sweetened by the tender touch and tears of kindred hands and hearts, and sanctified by the gentle benedictions⁸ of religion. It all might have been—it could never be now! Death had closed every door to reconciliation⁹ and amendment¹⁰, and written over each the mournful legend, "Too Late!"

He turned from the corpse¹¹ to ask for Bergan, and was surprised to learn that nothing was known of him at the Hall since he had

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