CHAPTER II.
MY MOTHER'S FUNERAL.
I never saw my Uncle Robert Moncton until the morning of my mother's funeral; and the impression that first interview made upon my young heart will never be forgotten.

It cast the first dark shadow upon the sunny dial of my life, and for many painful years my days and hours were numbered beneath its gloomy influence.
It was a chill, murky November day, such a day as London or its immediate vicinity can alone produce.

The rain fell slowly and steadily to the ground; and trickled from the window-frames in one continuous stream.

A thick mist hung upon the panes of glass like a gauze veil, intersected by innumerable channels of water, which looked like a pattern of open work left in the dingy material.

The shutters of our once populous parlour were half-closed; and admitted into the large, deserted apartment only a portion of this obscure light.