had never entered—the one through which her uncle's coffin had been carried.
"No, no—impossible!" exclaimed she aloud. With an effort she entered the apartment, and saw that her glance through the open door was right. A great empty room, it had been so convenient for Mrs. Arundel's dresses, which were all laid out in different directions: a large glass, evidently used in trying them on, stood in the middle; and on the very bed where her uncle had died was spread out a crimson silk pelisse, and, on the pillow above, a blonde cap and flowers.
Emily's indignation was at first the uppermost, the only feeling. She hurried from the place; but her own chamber once gained, anger only gave bitterness to grief. She reproached herself for having forgotten her sorrow; every lighter thought that had crossed her mind—every hope in which she had indulged, seemed like a crime; and her aunt's unfeeling levity was forgotten in her own melancholy remembrances. All was, however, recalled by a message from Mrs. Clarke, who requested she would join her in the drawing-room.
Sick at heart, her eyes red with crying, Emily obeyed the summons, and heard the voices of
