The funeral was an affair not of pomp but of great moment in those parts.  Two or three Nevilles from other counties came to the house, as did also sundry relatives bearing other names.  Mr. Mellerby was there, and one or two of the late Earl’s oldest friends; but the great gathering was made up of the Scroope tenants, not one of whom failed to see his late landlord laid in his grave.  “My Lord,” said an old man to Fred, one who was himself a peer and was the young lord’s cousin though they two had never met before, “My Lord,” said the old man, as soon as they had returned from the grave, “you are called upon to succeed as good a man as ever it has been my lot to know.  I loved him as a brother.  I hope you will not lightly turn away from his example.”  Fred made some promise which at the moment he certainly intended to perform.

On the next morning the will was read.  There was nothing in it, nor could there have been anything in it, which might materially affect the interests of the heir.  The late lord’s widow was empowered to take away from Scroope anything that she desired.  In regard to money she was provided for so amply that money did not matter to her.  A whole year’s income from the estates was left to the heir in advance, so that he might not be driven to any momentary difficulty in assuming the responsibilities of his station.  A comparatively small sum was left to Jack Neville, and a special gem to Sophie Mellerby.  There were bequests to all the servants, a thousand pounds to the vicar of the parish,—­which perhaps was the only legacy which astonished the legatee,—­and his affectionate love to every tenant on the estate.  All the world acknowledged that it was as good a will as the Earl could have made.  Then the last of the strangers left the house, and the Earl of Scroope was left to begin his reign and do his duty as best he might.

Jack had promised to remain with him for a few days, and Sophie Mellerby, who had altogether given up her London season, was to stay with the widow till something should be settled as to a future residence.  “If my aunt will only say that she will keep the house for a couple of years, she shall have it,” said Fred to the young lady,—­perhaps wishing to postpone for so long a time the embarrassment of the large domain; but to this Lady Scroope would not consent.  If allowed she would remain till the end of July.  By that time she would find herself a home.

“For the life of me, I don’t know how to begin my life,” said the new peer to his brother as they were walking about the park together.

“Do not think about beginning it at all.  You won’t be angry, and will know what I mean, when I say that you should avoid thinking too much of your own position.”

“How am I to help thinking of it?  It is so entirely changed from what it was.”

“No Fred,—­not entirely; nor as I hope, is it changed at all in those matters which are of most importance to you.  A man’s self, and his ideas of the manner in which he should rule himself, should be more to him than any outward accidents.  Had that cousin of ours never died—­”