Still the bridegroom did not come.

"A more onpresidented feat I don't recall," remarked Uncle Issy to a
group that stood at the west end under the gallery, "not since 'Melia
Spry's buryin', when the devil, i' the shape of a black pig, followed us
all the way to the porch."

"That was a brave while ago, Uncle."

"Iss, iss; but I mind to this hour how we bearers perspired--an' she
such a light-weight corpse. But plague seize my old emotions!--we'm
come to marry, not to bury."

"By the look o't 'tis' neither marry nor bury, Nim nor Doll," observed
Old Zeb, who had sacrificed his paternal feelings and come to church in
order to keep abreast with the age; "'tis more like Boscastle Fair,
begin at twelve o'clock an' end at noon. Why tarry the wheels of his
chariot?"

"'Tis possible Young Zeb an' he have a-met 'pon the road hither,"
hazarded Calvin Oke by a wonderful imaginative effort; "an' 'tis
possible that feelings have broke loose an' one o' the twain be
swelterin' in his own bloodshed, or vicey-versey."

"I heard tell of a man once," said Uncle Issy, "that committed murder
upon another for love; but, save my life, I can't think 'pon his name,
nor where 't befell."

"What an old store-house 'tis!" ejaculated Elias Sweetland, bending a
contemplative gaze on Uncle Issy.