So, Peter, let's pass this evening as
happily as we can; for though you and I shall soon meet again, yet it
may be years, or perhaps never, that we three shall sit down on the same
sofa as we do now."
Ellen, who was still nervous, from the late death of my mother, looked
down, and I perceived the tears start in her eyes at the remark of
O'Brien, that perhaps we should never meet again. And I did pass a happy
evening. I had a dear sister on one side of me, and a sincere friend on
the other. How few situations more enviable!
O'Brien left us early the next morning; and at breakfast-time a letter
was handed to my father. It was from my uncle, coldly communicating to
him that Lord Privilege had died the night before, very suddenly, and
informing him that the burial would take place on that day week, and
that the will would be opened immediately after the funeral. My father
handed the letter over to me without saying a word, and sipped his tea
with his tea-spoon. I cannot say that I felt very much on the occasion;
but I did feel, because he had been kind to me at one time: as for my
father's feelings, I could not--or rather I should say, I did not wish
to analyze them. As soon as he had finished his cup of tea, he left the
breakfast-table, and went into his study. I then communicated the
intelligence to my sister Ellen.
"My God!" said she, after a pause, putting her hand up to her eyes;
"what a strange unnatural state of society must we have arrived at, when
my father can thus receive the intelligence of a parent's death! Is it
not dreadful?"
"It is, my dearest girl," replied I; "but every feeling has been
sacrificed to worldly considerations and an empty name.
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