" Colonel M'Carstrow, reports say, had
some years ago got a deal of money by an unexplainable hocus pocus,
but it was well nigh gone in gambling, and now he was keeping
brothel society and rioting away his life faster than the
race-horses he had formerly kept on the course could run.
Hospitality hides itself when friends are needy; and it will be seen
here that Franconia had few friends-we mean friends in need. The
Rosebrook family formed an exception. The good deacon, and his ever
generous lady, had remained Franconia's firmest friends; but so
large and complicated were the demands against Marston, and so gross
the charges of dishonour--suspicion said he fraudulently made over
his property to Graspum-that they dared not interpose for his
relief; nor would Marston himself have permitted it. The question
now was, what was to be done with the dead body?
We left Franconia bathing its face, and smoothing the hair across
its temples with her hand. She cannot bury the body from her own
home:--no! M'Carstow will not permit that. She cannot consign it to
the commissioners for the better regulation of the "poor house,"-her
feelings repulse the thought. One thought lightens her cares; she
will straightway proceed to Mrs. Rosebrook's villa,--she will herself
be the bearer of the mournful intelligence; while Harry will watch
over the remains of the departed, until Daddy, who must be her guide
through the city, shall return. "I will go to prepare the next
resting-place for uncle," says Franconia, as if nerving herself to
carry out the resolution.
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