Oh, that my pen had power to make many fathers kind, many children trustful! Oh, that by some burning word I could thaw the cold, shame sarcasms, and arouse the apathetic! Oh that, invoking upon every hearth, whereto this book may come, the full free blaze of home affections, my labour of love be any thing but vain, when God shall have blessed what I am writing! Yes, children, dear Maria did mourn for her father, but she mourned as those who hope; his life had been forgiven, and his death was as a saints's: as for her, rich rewarded daughter at the last, one word of warm acknowledgement, one look of true affection, one tear of deep contrition, would have been superabundant to clear away all the many clouds, the many storms of her past home-life: and as for our Maker, with his pure and spotless justice, faith in the sacrifice had passed all sin to him, and love of the Redeemer had proved that faith the true one.

How should a daughter mourn for such a soul?
With tears of joy; with sighs--of kindred hopefulness; with happiest resolve to live as he had died; with instant prayer that her last end be like his.
There is a plain tablet in St.Benet's church, just within the altar-rail, bearing--no inscription about Lord Mayoralty, Knighthood, or the Worshipful Company of Stationers--but full of facts more glorious than every honour under heaven; for the words run thus: SORROWFUL, YET REJOICING, A DAUGHTER'S LOVE HAS PLACED THIS TABLET TO THE MEMORY OF T H O M A S D I L L A W A Y; A MAN WHO DIED IN THE FAITH OF CHRIST, IN THE LOVE OF GOD, AND IN THE HOPE OF HEAVEN.
Noble epitaph! Let us so live, that the like of this may be truth on our tomb-stones.

Seek it, rather than wealth, before honour, instead of pleasure; for, indeed, those words involve within their vast significancy riches unsearchable, glory indestructible, and pleasure for evermore! Hide them, as a string of precious pearls, within the casket of your hearts.
I had almost forgotten, though Maria never could, another neighbouring tablet to record the peaceful exit of her mother; however, as this had been erected by Sir Thomas in his life-time, and was plastered thick with civic glories and heathen virtues, possibly the transcript may be spared: there was only one sentence that looked true about the epitaph, though I wished it had been so in every sense; but, to common eyes, it had seemed quite suitable to the physical quietude of living Lady Dillaway, to say, "Her end was peace;" although, perhaps, the husband little thought how sore that mother's heart was for dear Maria's loss, how full of anxious doubts her mind about Maria's sin.

Poor soul, however peaceful now that spirit has read the truth, in the hour of her departure it had been with her far otherwise: her dying bed was as a troubled sea, for she died of a broken heart.
Yearly, on the anniversaries of their respective deaths, the growing clan of Clements make a solemn pilgrimage to their grand paternal shrine, attending service on those days (or the holiday nearest to them), at St.Benet's Sherehog; and Maria's eyes are very moist on such occasions; though hope sings gladly too within her wise and cheerful heart.

She does not seem to have lost those friends; they are only gone before..