"Let it be the true prudence," said Mr. Blount. "It is a short foresight that sees no further than the boundary of this life."
Mr. Marston opened the letter, and the old gentleman left him, to see after the preparations.
Some one at Golden Friars—I think it was the vicar—sent me the country paper, with a whole column in mourning, with a deep black edge, giving a full account of the funeral of Sir Harry Rokestone, of Dorracleugh. The ancient family whose name he bore was now extinct. I saw in the list the names of county people who had come in their carriages more than twenty miles to attend the funeral, and people who had come by rail hundreds of miles. It was a great county gathering mostly that followed the last of the Rokestones, of Dorracleugh, to the grave.
CHAPTER LXIX.
search for the will.
