said Mattocks, still eyeing the skull. 'It could not be Counsellor
Gallagher, that was kilt in the jewel with Colonel Ruck--he was hot in
the head--bud it could not be--augh! not at all.'

'Why not, Misther Mattocks?'

'No, nor the Mattross neither. This, ye see, is a dhry bit o' the yard
here; there's ould Darby's coffin, at the bottom, down there, sound
enough to stand on, as you see, wid a plank; an' he was buried in the
year '93. Why, look at the coffin this skull belongs to, 'tid go into
powdher between your fingers; 'tis nothin' but tindher.'

'I believe you're right, Mr. Mattocks.'

'Phiat! to be sure. 'Tis longer undher ground by thirty years, good, or
more maybe.'

Just then the slim figure of my tall mild uncle, the curate, appeared,
and his long thin legs, in black worsted stockings and knee-breeches,
stepped reverently and lightly among the graves. The men raised their
hats, and Mattocks jumped lightly into the grave again, while my uncle
returned their salute with the sad sort of smile, a regretful kindness,
which he never exceeded, in these solemn precincts.

It was his custom to care very tenderly for the bones turned up by the
sexton, and to wait with an awful solicitude until, after the reading of
the funeral service, he saw them gently replaced, as nearly as might be,
in their old bed; and discouraging all idle curiosity or levity
respecting them, with a solemn rebuke, which all respected. Therefore it
was, that so soon as he appeared the skull was, in Hibernian phrase,