THE FLORAL TELEGRAPH. 175 
the curtains were drawn, and that 
funereal light only admitted into the 
room, which makes the healthy feel 
indisposed and the sick man already 
in the vestibule of death. 
At the foot of the bed stood my 
worthy old friend, Sir Aldobrand, 
with a white cambric handkerchief 
to his eyes ; and, kneeling at the bed¬ 
side, was my graceless and spend¬ 
thrift nephew and heir. The hypo¬ 
critical rascal was actually pretending 
to weep. 
Here was a change from warm 
kisses from immortal lips, and the 
exciting presence of immortal beauty, 
to a scene, that, I am sadly fearful, 
