Poor Philip!" The funeral was over; the dead shovelled away.

What a strange thing it does seem, that that very form which we prized so charily, for which we prayed the winds to be gentle, which we lapped from the cold in our arms, from whose footstep we would have removed a stone, should be suddenly thrust out of sight--an abomination that the earth must not look upon--a despicable loathsomeness, to be concealed and to be forgotten! And this same composition of bone and muscle that was yesterday so strong--which men respected, and women loved, and children clung to--to-day so lamentably powerless, unable to defend or protect those who lay nearest to its heart; its riches wrested from it, its wishes spat upon, its influence expiring with its last sigh! A breath from its lips making all that mighty difference between what it was and what it is! The post-horses were at the door as the funeral procession returned to the house.
Mr.Robert Beaufort bowed slightly to Mrs.Morton, and said, with his pocket-handkerchief still before his eyes: "I will write to you in a few days, ma'am; you will find that I shall not forget you.

The cottage will be sold; but we sha'n't hurry you.
Good-bye, ma'am; good-bye, my boys;" and he patted his nephews on the head.
Philip winced aside, and scowled haughtily at his uncle, who muttered to himself, "That boy will come to no good!" Little Sidney put his hand into the rich man's, and looked up, pleadingly, into his face.

"Can't you say something pleasant to poor mamma, Uncle Robert ?" Mr.Beaufort hemmed huskily, and entered the britska--it had been his brother's: the lawyer followed, and they drove away.
A week after the funeral, Philip stole from the house into the conservatory, to gather some fruit for his mother; she had scarcely touched food since Beaufort's death.

She was worn to a shadow; her hair had turned grey.