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the house of Avonleigh. The lid was closed—human eye had looked its last on that young and beloved face. That glance would dwell on the memory for ever,--pale, calm, and unearthly. Well that it should be so; for who could bear to have their midnight haunted by the vision of corruption? The music ceased; slowly the bearers deposited their burden before the altar; and the deep melodious voice of Charles Aubyn was heard repeating the holy words which sanctify the act that restores the corse to its mother earth. Lord Avonleigh sat at the head of the coffin, and, in the negligence of sorrow, his cloak had fallen to the ground, and his countenance, fixed and rigid with despair, was fully given to view. It was awful—for suffering in its extreme is awful—to mark how a few days had changed him. Francesca knelt at his side, but he turned not towards her; and mute and motionless she listened to the service—only an occasional large bright drop falling through her closed hands told that she was weeping. The voice of the reader paused for a moment. Again the bearers took up the coffin, and cold and damp the subterranean air came from the opened vault. The tapers were lowered, and shed a ghastly light on the rows of piled coffins, and the moisture glittering on the walls. A