They were extremely moved at the text their sister had chosen for the subject of their funeral discourse.* I had extracted from the will that article, supposing it probable that I might not so soon have an opportunity to show them the will itself, as would otherwise have been necessary, on account of the interment, which cannot be delayed.

* See the Will, in pg. 112 of this volume.

MONDAY MORNING, BETWEEN EIGHT AND NINE.

The unhappy family are preparing for a mournful meeting at breakfast.  Mr. James Harlowe, who has had as little rest as I, has written to Mr. Melvill, who has promised to draw up a brief eulogium on the deceased.  Miss Howe is expected here by-and-by, to see, for the last time, her beloved friend.

Miss Howe, by her messenger, desires she may not be taken any notice of.  She shall not tarry six minutes, was the word.  Her desire will be easily granted her.

Her servant, who brought the request, if it were denied, was to return, and meet her; for she was ready to set out in her chariot, when he got on horseback.

If he met her not with the refusal, he was to say here till she came.  I am, Sir,

Your faithful, humble servant,
William Morden.

LETTER XXVIII

Colonel Morden [in continuation.] Monday afternoon, Sept. 11.

SIR,

We are such bad company here to one another, that it is some relief to retire and write.

I was summoned to breakfast about half an hour after nine.  Slowly did the mournful congress meet.  Each, lifelessly and spiritless, took our places, with swoln eyes, inquiring, without expecting any tolerable account, how each had rested.

The sorrowing mother gave for answer, that she should never more know what rest was.

By the time we were well seated, the bell ringing, the outward gate opening, a chariot rattling over the pavement of the court-yard, put them into emotion.

I left them; and was just time enough to give Miss Howe my hand as she alighted:  her maid in tears remaining in the chariot.

I think you told me, Sir, you never saw Miss Howe.  She is a fine, graceful young lady.  A fixed melancholy on her whole aspect, overclouded a vivacity and fire, which, nevertheless, darted now-and-then through the awful gloom.  I shall ever respect her for her love to my dear cousin.

Never did I think, said she, as she gave me her hand, to enter more these doors:  but, living or dead, Clarissa brings me after her any where!

She entered with me the little parlour; and seeing the coffin, withdrew her hand from mine, and with impatience pushed aside the lid.  As impatiently she removed the face-cloth.  In a wild air, she clasped her uplifted hands together; and now looked upon the corpse, now up to Heaven, as if appealing to that.  Her bosom heaved and fluttered discernible through her handkerchief, and at last she broke silence:—­O Sir!—­See you not here!—­the glory of her sex?—­Thus by the most villanous of yours—­thus—­laid low!