The ceremony of interment was short, and of the simplest.  The committing of the dead to final rest in the earth, is always impressive.  Man’s innate egotism always invests the final hiding away of the remains of one of his race in perpetual oblivion, with solemnity and awe.  One of the lords has departed; let man and nature observe and be impressed.

Uncle Aleck was too feeble to go to the grave.

The mourners—­the mother sustained by Barton, and Morris, attended by his promised bride, a sweet and beautiful girl, and the two young boys so interesting in their childish sorrow, so few in number, and unsupported by uncles, aunts or cousins—­were objects of unusual interest and commiseration.  But now, when the last act was performed for them, and the burial hymn had been sung, there was no one to speak for them the usual thanks for these kindnesses, and just as this came painfully to the sensibilities of the thoughtful, Barton uncovered his head and said the few needed words in a clear, steady voice, with such grace, that matronly women would gladly have kissed him; and young maidens noticed, what they had observed before, that there was something of nameless attraction in his face and manner.

Kind hands and sympathizing hearts were about the Ridgeleys, to solace, cheer and help; but the great void in their circle and hearts, only God and time could fill.  The heart, when it loses out of it one object of tenderness and love, only contracts the closer and more tenderly about what it has left.

* * * * *

Time elapses.  It kindly goes forward and takes us with it.  No matter how resolutely we cling to darkness and sorrow, time loosens our hearts, dries our tears, and while we declare we will not be comforted, and reproach ourselves, as the first poignancy of grief consciously fades, yet we are comforted.  The world will not wait for us to mourn.  The objects of love and of hate we may bear along with us, but distance will intervene between us and the sources of deep sorrow.

So far as Bart was concerned, his nature was in the main healthy, with only morbid tendencies, and the great blow of his brother’s death seemed in some way to restore the equilibrium of his mind, and leave it to act more freely, under guidance of the strong common sense inherited from his mother.  He knew he must not linger about his brother’s grave and weep.

He knew now that he was entirely upon his own resources.  His brother Morris’s speculations, and dashing system of doing things, had already hopelessly involved him, and Bart knew that no aid could be expected from him.  He had returned to Painesville, and closed up the few matters of his brother Henry; had written to Ranney, at Jefferson, and already had resumed his books with a saddened and sobered determination.  He supposed that Henry had died in consequence of a too close and long-continued application to his studies; and while this admonished him, he still believed that his own elasticity and power of endurance would carry him forward and through, unscathed.