On the following day, Miss Melbourne found her Ladyship in no disposition to renew the conversation of the preceding evening. The composing effects of sleep, her usual morning's refreshment, and half an hour spent with Fitzroy, had so far restored her to her ordinary train of feelings and reflections, that she seemed enabled to bear her share of the loss the family had sustained, with all due philosophy; and even inclined to retract a few of the praises that sorrow and unavailing regret had, in the first moments / of surprise and anguish extorted from her. Before her young friend had left her chamber, she had consulted her as to the most becoming mourning to be procured on account of this ‘melancholy business,’ as she termed it; and Matilda found, upon the whole, that the Countess had left upon her mind an impression of Lord Strathallan's merits, much deeper than what she at this moment herself experienced.

Their conference was interrupted by a bustle in the hall, which was plainly heard by Lady Torrendale; who, turning pale exclaimed: ‘for heaven's sake send those people away; and don't let Lord Torrendale see them, I am sure it is some of the tenants; they were so fond of that Strathallan.’ Her Ladyship was not mistaken. Several of the villagers, apprized, by general rumour, of the loss they had sustained, had assembled at the mansion, with a faint hope of hearing it contradicted; and on its mournful confirmation, filled the scene with their well-intended, but piercing expressions of sorrow. One old man in particular was deaf to all comfort. ‘He was such an angel to me and mine’ he said.