"Well then, Mr. Mayble, since death's to be, we'll die like men any day
you name (excusing my common way)."

Mr. Maybold bowed his head.

"All we thought was, that for us old ancient singers to be choked off
quiet at no time in particular, as now, in the Sundays after Easter,
would seem rather mean in the eyes of other parishes, sir. But if we
fell glorious with a bit of a flourish at Christmas, we should have a
respectable end, and not dwindle away at some nameless paltry
second-Sunday-after or Sunday-next-before something, that's got no name
of his own."

"Yes, yes, that's reasonable; I own it's reasonable."

"You see, Mr. Mayble, we've got--do I keep you inconvenient long, sir?"

"No, no."

"We've got our feelings--father there especially."

The tranter, in his earnestness, had advanced his person to within six
inches of the vicar's.

"Certainly, certainly!" said Mr. Maybold, retreating a little for
convenience of seeing. "You are all enthusiastic on the subject, and I
am all the more gratified to find you so. A Laodicean lukewarmness is
worse than wrongheadedness itself."

"Exactly, sir. In fact now, Mr. Mayble," Reuben continued, more