"To plant it in my own heart. The child must remain with you."
I did not pay very particular attention to this conversation at the time, but after events recalled it vividly to my recollection.
The undertaker put an end to the conference by informing the gentlemen that "all was ready, and the hearse was about to move forward." My nurse placed me in a mourning coach, beside my uncle and his companion, in order that I might form part of that dismal procession, to the nearest cemetery. I shall never forget the impression that solemn scene made on my mind. My first ideas of death and decay were formed whilst standing beside my mother's grave. There my heart received its first life-lesson; and owned its first acquaintanceship with grief—the ideal vanished, and the hard, uncompromising real took its place.
After the funeral was over, I accompanied my Uncle Robert to his house in Hatton Garden. At the door we parted with Mr. Walters, and many years elapsed, before I saw his face again.
MY AUNT REBECCA.
Mrs. Moncton welcomed the poor orphan with kindness. She was a little, meek-looking woman; with a sweet voice, and a very pale face. She might have been pretty when young, but my boyish impression was that she was very plain. By the side of her tall, stern partner, she looked the most delicate, diminutive creature in the world; and her gentle, timid manner made the contrast appear greater than it really was.
"God bless you! my poor child," said she, lifting me up in her arms and wiping the tears from my face. "You are young, indeed, to be left an orphan."
I clasped her neck and sobbed aloud. The sound of her voice reminded me of my mother, and I began to comprehend dimly all I had lost.
"Rebecca," said my uncle, in a deep, clear voice, "you must not spoil the boy. There is no need of this display."