m to another tribunal than this petty justice of ours, and laying a
solemn finger on our mouths, forbids us either to think or utter a word
of hatred against that which is now--what?--a disembodied spirit--a
handful of corrupting clay.

Lord Luxmore was dead. He had gone to his account; it was not ours to
judge him. We never knew--I believe no one except his son ever fully
knew--the history of his death-bed.

John sat in silence, the paper before him, long after we had passed the
news and discussed it, not without awe, all round the breakfast-table.

Maud stole up--hesitatingly, and asked to see the announcement of the
earl's decease.

"No, my child; but you shall hear it read aloud, if you choose."

I guessed the reason of his refusal; when, looking over him as he read,
I saw, after the long list of titles owned by the new Earl of Luxmore,
one bitter line; how it must have cut to the heart of him whom we first
heard of as "poor William!"

"HAD LIKEWISE ISSUE, CAROLINE, MARRIED IN 17--, TO RICHARD BRITHWOOD,
ESQUIRE, AFTERWARDS DIVORCED."

And by a curious coincidence, about twenty lines further down I read
among the fashionable marriages:

"AT THE BRITISH EMBASSY, PARIS, SIR GERARD VERMILYE, BART., TO THE
YOUTHFUL AND BEAUTIFUL DAUGHTER OF--"

I forget who. I only saw that the name was not her name, of whom the
"youthful and beautiful" bride had most likely never heard. He had not
married Lady Caroline.

This morning's intelligence brought the Luxmore family so much to our
thoughts, that driving out after breakfast, John and I involuntarily
recurred to the subject. Nay, talking on, in the solitude of our front
seat--for Mrs. Halifax, Miss Halifax, and Mrs. Edwin Halifax, in the
carriage behind, were deep in some other subject--we fell upon a topic
which by tacit consent had been laid aside, as in our household we held
it good to lay aside any inevitable regret.

"Poor Maud! how eager she was to hear the news to-day. She little
thinks how vitally it might have concerned her."

"No," John answered thoughtfully; then asked me with some abruptness,
"Why did you say 'poor Maud'?"

I really could not tell; it was a mere accident, the unwitting
indication of some crotchets of mine, which had often come into my mind
lately. Crotchets, perhaps peculiar to one, who, never having known a
certain possession, found himself rather prone to over-rate its value.
But it sometimes struck me as hard, considering ho