Letters will reach me there." Morris laid down the sheet with a sad heart, for he had been truly attached to his uncle Porson, whose simple virtues he understood and appreciated.

Then he opened his father's letter, which began in an imposing manner: "My Dear Son (usually he called him Morris),--It is with the deepest grief that I must tell you that poor John Porson, your uncle, passed away this morning about ten o'clock.

I was present at the time, and did my best to soothe his last moments with such consolations as can be offered by a relative who is not a clergyman.

I wished to wire the sad event to you, but Mary, in whom natural grief develops a self-will that perhaps is also natural, peremptorily refused to allow it, alleging that it was useless to alarm you and waste money on telegrams (how like a woman to think of money at such a moment) when it was quite impossible that you could arrive here in time for the funeral (for he wouldn't be brought home), which, under these queer foreign regulations, must take place to-morrow.

Also she announced, to my surprise, and, I must admit, somewhat to my pain, that she intended to immure herself for a month in a convent, after the fashion of the Roman faith, so that it was no use your coming, as men are not admitted into these places.