suddenly that his audience was inattentive. He saw, indeed, that his
sister was standing with her back half-turned, gazing on to the
shining country beyond the window. He ceased abruptly, gave his
niece a wink, and when this was unsuccessful, muttering a few words,
stumbled out of the room.

The whole village attended the funeral, not because it liked the
Rev. Charles, but because it liked funerals. Maggie was, in all
probability, the only person present who thought very deeply about
the late Vicar of St. Dreot's. The Rev. Tom Trefusis who conducted
the ceremony was a large red-faced man who had played Rugby football
for his University and spent most of his energy over the development
of cricket and football clubs up and down the county. He could not
be expected to have cared very greatly for the Rev. Charles, who had
been at no period of his life and in no possible sense of the word a
sportsman. As he conducted the service his mind speculated as to the
next vicar (the Rev. Tom knew an excellent fellow, stroke of the
Cambridge boat in '12, who would be just the man) the possibility of
the frost breaking in time for the inter-county Rugby match at
Truxe, the immediate return of his wife from London (he was very
fond of his wife), and, lastly, a certain cramp in the stomach that
sometimes "bowled him over" and of which the taking of a funeral--
"here to-day and gone to-morrow"--always reminded him.

"Wonder how long I'll last," he thought as he stood over the grave
of the Rev. Charles and let his eyes wander over the little white
gravestones that ran almost into the dark wall of St. Dreot Woods as
though they were trying to hide themselves. "Wish the frost 'ud
break--ground'll be as hard as nails." The soil fell, thump, thump
upon the coffin. Rooks cawed in the trees; the bell tolled its