The funeral was over. Major Bergan, with due pomp and circumstance of woe¹, had been laid in the tomb of his forefathers², and left to mingle³ his ashes with theirs. Of all his possessions, he retained for his own behoof simply a shroud⁴ and a coffin⁵. No good work of Church or State would miss his helping⁶ hand. He left no real, aching vacancy⁷ in any human heart. His imposing⁸ funeral train scattered⁹ to houses, places of business, and street corners, some to forget the event at once, in the absorbing interest of their own affairs; some to talk it over, and then—forget it all the same. Two or three remote cousins, sniffing¹⁰ the air for legacies¹¹, went back to the Hall, to wait for the reading of the will, and, meanwhile, to finish the funeral baked meats. Mr. Bergan had bidden them make themselves at home, and excused himself from accompanying them: being greatly fatigued¹² with the manifold duties and emotions of the day, he was fain to spend the intervening time quietly at Oakstead.

He found Carice on the piazza¹³; she had been wheeled out in an easy chair, to enjoy the beneficent air and sunshine. She was pale and feeble, but the light of restored reason shone in her eyes, and gave

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