I rose on the following morning at a late hour, and with a heaviness at the heart that was natural to the occasion.  It was a lovely summer’s day; but all in and around Clawbonny wore the air of a Sunday.  The procession was to form at ten o’clock; and, as I cast my eyes from my window, I could see the negroes moving about on the lawns, and in the lanes, attired in their best, but wearing no holiday faces.  It seemed to me to be a species of unnatural Sabbath, possessing all its solemnity, its holy stillness, its breathing calm, but wanting in that solacing spirit of peace which is so apt to be imparted to the day of rest in the country, most particularly at that season of the year.  Several of the neighbours, who did not belong to Clawbonny, were beginning to appear; and I felt the necessity of dressing in order to be in readiness for what was to follow.

I had eaten alone in my little study or library from the time my sister died, and had seen no one since my return to the house, the servants excepted, besides my guardian, Lucy, and John Wallingford.  The last had taken a light supper with me the previous night; but he was then breakfasting with the rest of the guests in the family eating-room, Mr. Hardinge doing the honours of the house.

As for myself, I found my own little table prepared with its coffee and light meal, as I had ordered before retiring.  It had two cups, however, and a second plate had been laid in addition to my own.  I pointed to this arrangement, and demanded of the old white-headed house-servant, who was in-waiting, what it meant.

“Miss Lucy, sah—­she say she mean to breakfast wid Masser Mile, dis mornin’, sah.”

Even the accents of this negro were solemn and sad as he made this familiar explanation, like those of a man who was conscious of having reached an hour and an occasion that called for peculiar awe.  I bade him let Miss Lucy know that I was in the study.

“Ah, Masser Mile,” added the old man, with tears in his eyes as he left the room, “Miss Lucy ’e only young missus now, sah!”

In a few minutes Lucy joined me.  She was in deep black of course, and that may have added to the appearance of paleness; but no one could be deceived in the manner in which the dear girl had mourned and wept since we parted.  The subdued expression of her face gave it a peculiar sweetness; and, in spite of the absence of colour, I thought, as Lucy advanced towards me, both hands extended, and a smile of anxious inquiry on her lips, that she had never appeared more lovely.  I did not hesitate about pressing those hands with fervour, and of kissing the warm though colourless cheek.  All this passed as it might have done between an affectionate brother and sister, neither of us thinking, I am persuaded, of aught but the confidence and friendship of childhood.

“This is kind of you, dear Lucy,” I said, as we took our seats at the little table; “my cousin John Wallingford, though a good man in the main, is scarcely near enough, or dear enough, to be admitted at a time like this.”