us, and all Cheltenham talked of nothing but the dead Mrs
Rainscourt, the living Mr Rainscourt, the heart, and the magnificent
gold urn.

"Have you heard how poor Mr Rainscourt is?" was the usual question at
the pump, as the ladies congregated to pour down Number 3, or Number 4,
in accordance with the directions of the medical humbugs.

"More resigned--they say he was seen walking after dark?"

"Was he, indeed? to the churchyard, of course. Poor dear man!"

"Miss Emily's maid told my Abigail last night, that she looks quite
beautiful in her mourning. But I suppose she will not come on the
promenade again, before she leaves Cheltenham."

"She ought not," replied a young lady who did not much approve of so
handsome an heiress remaining at Cheltenham. "It will be very incorrect
if she does; some one ought to tell her so."

With the exception of Mr Potts, no one had dared to break in upon the
solitude of Mr Rainscourt, who had remained the whole day upon the
sofa, with the urn on the table before him, and the shutters closed to
exclude the light. The worthy curate called upon him every evening,
renewing his topics of consolation, and pointing out the duty of
Christian resignation. A deep sigh! a heavy Ah! or a long drawn Oh!
were all the variety of answers that could be obtained for some days.
But time does wonders; and Mr Rainscourt at last inclined an ear to the
news of the day, and listened with marked attention to the answers which
he elicited from the curate, by his indirect questions, as to what the
world said about him.

"Come, come, Mr Rainscourt, do not indulge your grief any more. Excess
becomes criminal. It is my duty to tell you so, and yours to attend to
me. It is not to be expected that you will immediately return to the
world and its amusements; but as there must be a beginning, why not come
and take your family dinner to-day with Mrs Potts and me? Now let me
persuade you--she will be delighted to see you--we dine at five. A hot
joint--nothing more."

Rainscourt, who was rather tired of solitude, refused in such a way as
to induce the worthy curate to reiterate his invitation, and at length,
with great apparent unwillingness, consented. The curate sat with him
until the dinner hour, when, leaning on the pastor's arm, Rainscourt
walked down the street, in all the trappings of his woe, and his eyes
never once raised from the ground.

"There's Mr Rainscourt! There's Mr Rainscourt!" whispere