tice, his selfishness and hopeless depravity—I wish a milder word would do—; I am no angel and my corruption rises against it. My poor father died last week: Arthur was vexed to hear of it, because he saw that I was shocked and grieved, and he feared the circumstance would mar his comfort. When I spoke of ordering my mourning, he exclaimed—
"Oh, I hate black! But however, I suppose you must wear it awhile, for form's sake; but I hope, Helen, you won't think it your bounden duty to compose your face and manners into conformity with your funerial garb. Why should you sigh and groan, and I be made uncomfortable because an old gentleman in shire, a perfect stranger to us both, has thought proper to drink himself to death?—There now, I declare you're crying! Well, it must be affectation."
He would not hear of my attending the funeral, or going for a day or two, to cheer poor Frederick's solitude. It was quite unnecessary, he
