It would seem by the saddened manner in which Willoughby moved away, that he was of the same way of thinking as the serjeant, on this melancholy subject.  The moment, however, was favourable for the object, and delay could not be afforded.  Then Willoughby’s disposition was to console his mother, even while he wept with her over the dead body of him they had lost.

Notwithstanding the wild uproar that had so prevailed, not only without, but within the place, the portion of the house that was occupied by the widowed matron and her daughters, was silent as the grave.  All the domestics were either on the staging, or at the loops, leaving the kitchens and offices deserted.  The major first entered a little ante-chamber, that opened between a store-room, and the apartment usually occupied by his mother; this being the ordinary means of approach to her room.  Here he paused, and listened quite a minute, in the hope of catching some sound from within that might prepare him for the scene he was to meet.  Not a whisper, a moan, or a sob could be heard; and he ventured to tap lightly at the door.  This was unheeded; waiting another minute, as much in dread as in respect, he raised the latch with some such awe, as one would enter into a tomb of some beloved one.  A single lamp let him into the secrets of this solemn place.

In the centre of the room, lay stretched on a large table, the manly form of the author of his being.  The face was uppermost, and the limbs had been laid, in decent order, as is usual with the dead that have been cared for.  No change had been made in the dress, however, the captain lying in the hunting-shirt in which he had sallied forth; the crimson tint which disfigured one breast, having been sedulously concealed by the attention of Great Smash.  The passage from life to eternity had been so sudden, as to leave the usual benignant expression on the countenance of the corpse; the paleness which had succeeded the fresh ruddy tint of nature, alone denoting that the sleep was not a sweet repose, but that of death.

The body of his father was the first object that met the gaze of the major.  He advanced, leaned forward, kissed the marble-like forehead, with reverence, and groaned in the effort to suppress an unmanly outbreaking of sorrow.  Then he turned to seek the other well-beloved faces.  There sat Beulah, in a corner of the room, as if to seek shelter for her infant, folding that infant to her heart, keeping her look riveted, in anguish, on the inanimate form that she had ever loved beyond a daughter’s love.  Even the presence of her brother scarce drew a glance away from the sad spectacle; though, when it at length did, the youthful matron bowed her face down to that of her child, and wept convulsively.  She was nearest to the major, who moved to her side, and kissed the back of her neck, with kind affection.  The meaning was understood; and Beulah, while unable to look up, extended a hand to meet the fraternal pressure it received.