it. I hastened to add--

"I was wandering about the place, making some acquaintance with it,
and with my friends in it, when I came upon you quite unexpectedly.
You know I saw you in church on Sunday afternoon."

"I know you saw me, sir," he answered, with a motion as if to return
to his work; "but, to tell the truth, I don't go to church very
often."

I did not quite know whether to take this as proceeding from an
honest fear of being misunderstood, or from a sense of being in
general superior to all that sort of thing. But I felt that it would
be of no good to pursue the inquiry directly. I looked therefore for
something to say.

"Ah! your work is not always a pleasant one," I said, associating
the feelings of which I have already spoken with the facts before
me, and looking at the coffin, the lower part of which stood nearly
finished upon trestles on the floor.

"Well, there are unpleasant things in all trades," he answered. "But
it does not matter," he added, with an increase of bitterness in his
smile.

"I didn't mean," I said, "that the work was unpleasant--only sad.
It must always be painful to make a coffin."

"A joiner gets used to it, sir, as you do to the funeral service.
But, for my part, I don't see why it should be considered so unhappy