The doctor's lantern glided by--and then across the street--and so
leisurely along the foot-way, by the range of lightless hall doors
towards the Salmon House, also dark; and so, sharp round the corner, and
up to the church-yard gate, which stood a little open, as also the
church door beyond, as was evidenced by the feeble glow of a lantern
from within.

I dare say old Bob Martin, the sexton, and grave Mr. Irons, the clerk,
were reassured when they heard the cheery voice of the rector hailing
them by name. There were now three candles in church; but the edifice
looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total
darkness. Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig and
blue chin, and something shy and sinister in his phiz. I don't think he
had entertained honest Bob with much conversation from those thin lips
of his during their grizzly _tête-à-tête_ among the black windows and
the mural tablets that overhung the aisle.

But the rector had lots to say--though deliberately and gravely, still
the voice was genial and inspiring--and exorcised the shadows that had
been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church functionaries. Mrs.
Irons's tooth, he learned, was still bad; but she was no longer troubled
with 'that sour humour in her stomach.' There were sour humours, alas!
still remaining--enough, and to spare, as the clerk knew to his cost.
Bob Martin thanked his reverence; the cold rheumatism in his hip was
better.' Irons, the clerk, replied, 'he had brought two prayer-books.'
Bob averred 'he could not be mistaken; the old lady was buried in the
near-vault; though it was forty years before, he remembered it like last
night. They changed her into her lead coffin in the vault--he and the
undertaker together--her own servants would not put a hand to her. She
was buried in white satin, and with her rings on her fingers. It was her