hand up to her eyes,
"what a strange, unnatural state of society must we have arrived at when
my father can thus receive the intelligence of a parent's death. Is it
not dreadful?"

"It is, my dearest girl," replied I; "but every feeling has been
sacrificed to worldly considerations and an empty name. The younger
sons have been neglected, if not deserted. Virtue, talent, everything
set at naught--intrinsic value despised--and the only claim to
consideration admitted, that of being the heir entail. When all the
ties of nature are cast loose by the parents, can you be surprised if
the children are no longer bound by them? Most truly do you observe,
that it is a detestable state of society."

"I did not say detestable, brother; I said strange and unnatural."

"Had you said what I said, Ellen, you would not have been wrong. I
would not, for the title and wealth which it brings, be the heartless,
isolated, I may say neglected, being that my grandfather was: were it
offered now, I would not barter for it Ellen's love."

Ellen threw herself in my arms; we then walked into the garden, where we
had a long conversation relative to our future wishes, hopes and,
prospects.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

POMPOUS OBSEQUIES--THE READING OF THE WILL, NOT EXACTLY AFTER WILKIE--I
AM LEFT A LEGACY--WHAT BECOMES OF IT--MY FATHER, VERY WARM, WRITES A
SERMON TO COOL HIMSELF--I JOIN O'BRIEN'S BRIG, AND FALL IN WITH
SWINBURNE.

On that day week I accompanied my father to Eagle Park, to assist at the
burial of Lord Privilege. We were ushered into the room where the body
had lain in state for three days. The black hangings, the lofty plumes,
the rich ornaments on the coffin, and the number of wax candles, with
which the room was lighted, produced a solemn and grand effect. I could
not help, as I leaned against the balustrade before the coffin, and
thought of its contents, calling to mind when my poor grandfather's
feelings seemed, as it were, inclined to thaw in my favour, when he
called me "his child," and, in all probability, had not my uncle had a
son, would have died in my arms, fond and attached to me for my own
sake, independently of worldly considerations. I felt that had I known
him longer, I could have loved him, and that he would have loved me; and
I thought to myself how little all these empty honours, after his
decease, could compensate for the loss of those reciprocal feelings,
which would have so added to his happiness