"Now, sir, will you have the goodness to explain the nature of your business with me—since it is with me, no doubt, that you have business to transact?" said the farmer, in a tone which showed how disagreeable the undertaker's whining nonsense was to him.

"Something tells me that this man's visit bears reference to our adventure of the morning," whispered Ellen to Katherine. "Do not offer to leave the room: let us hear all he has to say."

Katherine replied by a meaning look, and then glanced with suspicious timidity towards Banks, who was again speaking.

"My business isn't to be explained in a moment, sir," said the undertaker; "and I must beg your patience for a little while."

"Go on," exclaimed the farmer, throwing himself back in his seat, and folding his arms with the desperate air of a man who knew that he could only get rid of a troublesome visitor by allowing him to tell his story in his own way.

"You're in mourning, ma'am, I see," observed Mr. Banks, turning towards Mrs. Bennet. "Ah! I remember—that wexatious affair of the Rector of Saint David's. Pray, ma'am, who undertook the funeral of your blessed defunct sister?"

"Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Bennet, tears starting into her eyes.

"No offence, ma'am—no offence. Only I should like it to be known in these here parts that Edward Banks—of Globe Lane, London, undertakes on new and economic principles, and doesn't mind distances. S'pose, sir," continued this most disagreeable visitor, again addressing the farmer, "s'pose you come to me some fine morning and says, 'Banks,' says you, 'my dear wife has just become a blessed defunct——'"

"This is too much!" ejaculated Mr. Bennet, starting from his seat. "Have you, or have you not, any business to engage my attention?"

"I'm coming to the pint—I'm coming to the pint this moment," said Banks. "Pray sit down for a few minutes—I shan't ingross much more of your wallyable time; for time really is wallyable in this sublunary speer;"—and the undertaker shook his head so mournfully that worthy Mrs. Bennet could not help thinking he was a very good and humane, though somewhat a prosy individual. "When we look around us, and behold how many benighted creeturs lives in total recklessness for the futur'—without putting by in an old stocking or any where else a single penny towards buying 'em a decent coffin—it's enough to make one's hair stand on end. But I see you are growing impatient, sir:—well—perhaps my feelings does carry me away. Still I don't mean no harm. Howsomever—business is business, as coffins is coffins, or carkisses is carkisses; and so here's to business in a jiffy."

With these words Mr. Banks drew from his capacious coat-pocket a brown-paper parcel, about a foot long, three inches wide, and as many deep.

Then he began, with most provoking deliberation of manner, to unroll the numerous folds of paper in which the precious object of so much care was wrapped; and, while he thus aroused the curiosity of his spectators to the utmost, he continued talking in a more lachrymose style than ever.

"There is dooties which we owe to heaven—and there is dooties which we owe to our fellow-creeturs. To heaven, ma'am, we owes a obligation of wirtue: to our fellow-creeturs we owes respect and decency when they're no more. Wirtues, ma'am, is like the white nails on a black-cloth covered coffin: the more there is of 'em, the stronger is the coffin, and the better it looks. Wices, ma'am, is like the knots in a common deal coffin: the more there is of 'em, the veaker is the coffin, and the wuss it looks. I'm now a-going to show you, ma'am—and you, too, sir—and you also, young ladies—a object of the deepest interest to us poor mortal wessels. I've wrapped it up in this wise, 'cause I've paytented it, and this is the only model I've got. When once it's generally known, the whole world will thank me for the inwention; and posterity will remember with gratitude the name of Banks of Globe Lane—Furnisher of Funerals on New and Economic Principles. You see, the parcel is gettin' smaller and smaller—'cause the blessed object was as well wrapped up as a young babby. However—here's the last fold:—off with the paper—and there's the concentrating focus of all interest!"

As Mr. Banks wound up with this beautiful peroration, he disengaged from the last fold of paper a miniature model of a coffin, about eight inches long, and wide and deep in proportion. It was covered with black silk, and was studded with innumerable white nails.

But as he placed it, with a glance of almost paternal affection, upon the table, the farmer started up, exclaiming, "I have already put up with your insolence too long. What does this unwarrantable intrusion upon my privacy mean? Speak, sir: have you any thing to say to me?"

"I am now coming to the pint at length," answered the undertaker, but little abashed by this rebuff. "In one word," he continued, producing a small memorandum-book and preparing to write with a pencil,—"in one word, I want you and your family to let me put down each of your names——"

"For what?" demanded Bennet, impatiently.

"For a Paytent Silk-covered Silver-nailed Indestructible Wood-seasoned Coffin," was the calm reply. "It's warranted to keep as good as new till you want it."

Mr. Bennet fell back into his seat, completely stupefied by this extraordinary announcement;—Mrs. Bennet cast horrified glances at the undertaker, as if she thought he was mad;—Ellen cast a look of deep indignation on the individual who had produced this excitement;—and Katherine started on her seat, exclaiming, "What have you done, Mr. Banks? Mrs. Bennet is fainting!"

This was really the case—such an effect did the sudden display of the coffin and the cool demand of patronage made by the undertaker, produce upon one whose mind had not yet quite recovered from the severe shock occasioned by the murder of her sister.

"Water, Katherine!—quick!" exclaimed the farmer, hastening towards his wife.

Kate instantly hurried from the room to fetch water; while Ellen, on her part, proffered the necessary attentions to the fainting woman.

Mr. Banks was thus for a moment forgotten; and this was exactly the condition of things that suited his purpose. Hastily thrusting the model coffin into his pocket, he seized his hat and hurried from the parlour, closing the door behind him.

In the passage he met Kate, who was hastening back to the room, with a jug of water in her hand.

"One moment—only one moment—as you value the memory of your deceased mother,"—whispered Banks, speaking more rapidly and with less whining affectation than he had done for many years. "Take this note—read it in private—its contents deeply concern you and your blessed defunct parent. If you breathe a word concerning it to a soul you will for ever lose the opportunity of knowing who was your father."

Banks thrust a note into the girl's hand, and hastily left the house.

The words which he had uttered, produced—as might naturally be supposed—so strange an effect upon Katherine,—that sudden allusion to her mother took her so much by surprise,—and then that mysterious mention of her father increased her bewilderment to such an extent, that she mechanically grasped the note with a mixture of awe and gratitude, and, prompted by the same impulses, thrust it into the bosom of her dress.

All this was the work of scarcely a quarter of a minute; and the moment she had thus received and concealed the note, she re-entered the parlour, where the aid of the fresh water soon brought Mrs. Bennet to herself.

"Where is that scoundrel?" cried the farmer, now finding leisure to think of the cause of his wife's sudden indisposition.

"He is gone," returned Katherine.

Then, seating herself near the window, the young girl fell into a profound reverie.

"Gone!" ejaculated Bennet. "But it is better that he should have gone—or I might be tempted to do him a mischief."

"That man came hither with some sinister design," said Ellen. "From the first moment of his appearance, my suspicions associated his visit with the adventure of the morning."

"But what object could he have?" cried the farmer. "He seemed only anxious to intrude himself as long as possible."

"Perhaps he was waiting for an opportunity to speak to Katherine alone," observed Ellen. "He certainly appeared to be talking against time."

"Yes, dear friends," exclaimed Katherine, rising from her seat, and advancing towards those whom she thus addressed; "that man did desire to speak to me alone—and he succeeded in his object. Pardon me if for a few moments I hesitated whether to obey his solemn injunction of silence, or to communicate the incident to you who wish me well. But the words which he spoke, and the earnestness of his manner, bewildered me. It however only required a short interval of sober reflection to teach me my duty."

Katherine then repeated the words that Banks had whispered in her ears, and produced the note which he had thrust into her hand.

"You have acted prudently in revealing these particulars, dear Kate," said Ellen. "A man who is compelled to effect his purposes by such low devices as those employed by him who has just left us, cannot mean well."

"Let us hear the contents of the letter," cried Farmer Bennet: "we may then, perhaps, see more clearly into the mystery."

"Read it, Ellen," said Kate. "I must confess to a profound curiosity to become acquainted with its contents."

Ellen accordingly opened the note, and read as follows:—

"Silence and secrecy,—if you respect the memory of your deceased mother! Be not deluded by the advice of Miss Monroe, who has her own reasons for prejudicing you against me. I am well acquainted with all the particulars of your birth:—I can impart facts that it behoves you to learn. You will bitterly repent any distrust in this matter. Have you no inclination to hear more concerning your mother's history than you can possibly now know? would you not go far, and sacrifice much, to glean something with regard to your father? This evening—at seven precisely—I shall be at the foot of the hill where I met you just now. If you come alone, you will learn much that nearly and deeply concerns you: if you appear accompanied by a soul, my lips will remain sealed.

"I have so far my own reasons for counselling you against that wicked woman," said Ellen, indignantly, "inasmuch as I would save you from danger. But if you really believe that there can be any thing serious in this promise of important communications, I should advise you to meet that female—for precautions can be adopted to protect you from a distance."

Katherine glanced inquiringly towards the farmer.

"I see that you are anxious to meet this woman, Kate," said he, after a pause; "and it is natural. She promises communications on subjects that cannot be otherwise than dear to you. Miss Monroe and I can keep watch at a distance; and on the slightest elevation of voice on your part, we will hasten to your assistance."

This project was approved of even by the timid Mrs. Bennet; and Katherine Wilmot anxiously awaited the coming of the appointed hour.