And now was to take place that ceremony to which Madam Melcombe's
thoughts had so often been directed. She had tried to arrange that it
should be imposing, and imposing indeed it was, but not by virtue of the
profusion of the refreshment, not by the presence of the best hearse
from the county town, the best mourning coaches, the grandest plumes,
but by the unsolicited attendance of a great company of people come
together to do homage to a life distinguished by its misfortunes, its
patience, and its charities.

She had never been able to think of herself as taking part in that
ceremony unconsciously; her orders had always been given as if by one
who felt that if things were meanly done she should know it; but in
taking care that refreshments should be provided for all the funeral
attendants, she little thought that the whole parish, men and women,
were to follow her, and most of them in tears. But it was so. The
tenants had been invited; they walked after her in scarf and band, two
and two, and after them, in such mourning as they could afford, came all
the people, and pressed on in a procession that seemed to the real
mourners almost endless, to look down upon her coffin and obtain a place
near her grave.

It was out of doors, and all nature was in white. Round the churchyard
pear-trees grew, and leaned their laden branches over its walls.
Pear-trees, apple-trees, and cherries filled the valley and crowded one
another up all the hills. Mr. Craik's voice, as he stood at the grave,
also in white, was heard that quiet afternoon far and near. It was
remarked on all sides how impressively he read, and there were plenty to
be edified by the solemn words who had never heard his voice before, for
many people had walked over from neighbouring parishes, and stood in
groups at respectful distances.