Her son (his heart then softened, as his eyes showed,) besought her to withdraw:  and her woman looking in at that moment, he called her to assist him in conducting her lady into the middle parlour:  and then returning, met his father going out of the door, who also had but just cast his eye on the coffin, and yielded to my entreaties to withdraw.  His grief was too deep for utterance, till he saw his son coming in; and then, fetching a heavy groan, Never, said he, was sorrow like my sorrow!  —­O Son!  Son!—­in a reproaching accent, his face turned from him.

I attended him through the middle parlour, endeavouring to console him.  His lady was there in agonies.  She took his eye.  He made a motion towards her:  O my dear, said he—­But turning short, his eyes as full as his heart, he hastened through to the great parlour:  and when there, he desired me to leave him to himself.

The uncles and sister looked and turned away, very often, upon the emblems, in silent sorrow.  Mrs. Hervey would have read to them the inscription—­These words she did read, Here the wicked cease from troubling—­But could read no farther.  Her tears fell in large drops upon the plate she was contemplating; and yet she was desirous of gratifying a curiosity that mingled impatience with her grief because she could not gratify it, although she often wiped her eyes as they flowed.

Judge you, Mr. Belford, (for you have great humanity,) how I must be affected.  Yet was I forced to try to comfort them all.

But here I will close this letter, in order to send it to you in the morning early.  Nevertheless, I will begin another, upon supposition that my doleful prolixity will be disagreeable to you.  Indeed I am altogether indisposed for rest, as I have mentioned before.  So can do nothing but write.  I have also more melancholy scenes to paint.  My pen, if I may say so, is untired.  These scenes are fresh upon my memory:  and I myself, perhaps, may owe to you the favour of a review of them, with such other papers as you shall think proper to oblige me with, when heavy grief has given way to milder melancholy.

My servant, in his way to you with this letter, shall call at St. Alban’s upon the good woman, that he may inform you how she does.  Miss Arabella asked me after her, when I withdrew to my chamber; to which she complaisantly accompanied me.  She was much concerned at the bad way we left her in; and said her mother would be more so.

No wonder that the dear departed, who foresaw the remorse that would fall to the lot of this unhappy family when they came to have the news of her death confirmed to them, was so grieved for their apprehended grief, and endeavoured to comfort them by her posthumous letters.  But it was still a greater generosity in her to try to excuse them to me, as she did when we were alone together, a few hours before she died; and to aggravate more than (as far as I can find) she ought to have done, the only error she was ever guilty of.  The more freely, however, perhaps, (exalted creature!) that I might think the better of her friends, although at her own expense.  I am, dear Sir,