Allusion was made, not unmixed with bitterness, in Mr. Stanbury’s note, to this assertion of hers, which he pronounced, if true, to rest on the misrepresentations of villains who had interposed between the too confiding Mr. Monfort and himself for no good purpose.  No names were given, but it was easy to see to whom his reference was made, and I had every reason to suppose that Evelyn had communicated these opinions to those most interested in knowing them long before this record accidentally fell into my hands.

On the day of the funeral, however, Mr. and Mrs. Stanbury were present, with Laura and George.  All seemed deeply affected, and one by one came to me in my shadowed chamber with a few words of tender sympathy or kindly condolence, for I could not bear to go down into that crowded parlor and see him dead amid all that tide of life, who had so lately stood there powerful and beloved—­Monfort the master!

It was a superb day, they told me, such as we often have at that season in our changeful clime, and the distant peal of military music, the chiming of bells, the firing of cannon, the roar of the awakened multitude, reached my ear even in that secluded street, that quiet room.

The people were celebrating an anniversary that in all times has brought joy and pride to millions of united hearts.  It was the birthday of Washington.

Laura Stanbury remained with me while all the rest went to the stately funeral, Evelyn leading Mabel down-stairs, they told me, attired in her little black dress, in sad contrast with her ivory skin, her yellow hair, her childish years, and her unconsciousness of the grave loss she had sustained; Mrs. Austin following these, her darlings, to go with them in the principal mourning-coach, in which Mr. Bainrothe also found himself ensconced, by some diplomacy of his own, no doubt, all clad in sables, and with his polished aspect fixed in woe!

After the funeral, Dr. Pemberton came up for a few minutes to my chamber.  He found me reasonably calm and composed, and expressed his gratification at my condition.

“Now, do be very careful of yourself, my dear Miriam, or you may have one of your sleepy attacks, and they are exhausting to Nature, trying to both body and soul.  We must guard against any thing of this sort at this time.  You know how apt they are to supervene on excitement of any kind with you.”  He said this in his own kind, encouraging manner.

“Then they are strictly nervous?” I inquired.

“I don’t know; can’t say, indeed.—­Here, Mrs. Austin, give Miriam one of these powders,” and he drew them from his pocket-book, “every six hours until I come again, and keep her as quiet as possible.  Some light nourishment she must take, but let there be no preaching and praying about her this evening, and advise Mr. Bainrothe to go quietly home for the present.  She must not be excited, only soothed.  Let Mabel come, of course.”