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We are all of us ies are the

brood of desire; and poor old Featherstone, who laughed much at the way

in which others cajoled themselves, did not escape the fellowship of

illusion In writing the programme for his burial he certainly did not

make clear to himself that his pleasure in the little drama of which it

for over the

vexations he could inflict by the rigid clutch of his dead hand, he

inevitably nant presence,

and so far as he was preoccupied with a future life, it ith one of

gratification inside his coffin Thus old Featherstone was

i-coaches were filled according to the

written orders of the deceased There were pall-bearers on horseback,

with the richest scarfs and hatbands, and even the under-bearers had

trappings of hich were of a good well-priced quality The black

procession, when diser for the smallness of the