after the solemn procession it had so lately seen, no one was met on the
road towards the church-yard. It was months, indeed, after the funeral,
that any of the slaves ventured into the latter by night; and, even during
the day, they approached it with an awe that nothing could have inspired
but the death of a Wallingford. Perhaps it was owing to my increased age
and greater observation, but I fancied that these simple beings felt the
death of their young mistress more than they had felt that of my mother.

St. Michael's church-yard is beautifully ornamented with flourishing
cedars. These trees had been cultivated with care, and formed an
appropriate ornament for the place. A fine cluster of them shaded the
graves of my family, and a rustic seat had been placed beneath their
branches, by order of my mother, who had been in the habit of passing
hours in meditation at the grave of her husband. Grace and I, and Lucy,
had often repaired to the same place at night, after my mother's death,
and there we used to sit many an hour, in deep silence; or, if utterance
were given to a thought, it was in a respectful whisper. As I now
approached this seat, I had a bitter satisfaction in remembering that
Rupert had never accompanied us in these pious little pilgrimages. Even in
the day of her greatest ascendancy, Grace had been unable to enlist her
admirer in an act so repugnant to his innate character. As for Lucy, her
own family lay on one side of that cluster of cedars, as mine lay on the
other; and often had I seen the dear young creature weeping, as her eyes
were riveted on the graves of relatives she had never known. But _my_
mother had been _her_ mother, and for this friend she felt an attachment
almost as strong as that which was entertained by ourselves. I am not
certain I ought not to say, an attachment _quite_ as strong as our own.

I was apprehensive some visitors might be hovering near the grave of my
sister at that witching hour, and I approached the cedars cautiously,