Marston had rashly told Martha that she could have what was left as a
perquisite, which resulted later in stormy happenings.

* * * * *

From the nook on the hillside where the chapel stood, as Abel ran
hastily down the slope--the harp jogging on his shoulders and looking
like some weird demon that clung round his neck and possessed him--came
a roar of sound. The brass band from Black Mountain was in possession
of the platform. The golden windows shone comfortably in the cold
spring evening, and Hazel ran towards them as she would have run
towards the wide-flung onyx doors of faery.

They arrived breathless and panting in the graveyard, where the
tombstones seemed to elbow each other outside the shining windows,
looking into this cave of saffron light and rosy joy as sardonically as
if they knew that those within its shelter would soon be without,
shelterless in the storm of death; that those who came in so gaily by
twos and threes would go out one by one without a word. Hazel peered
in.

'Fine raps they're having!' she whispered. 'All the band's there,
purple with pleasure, and sweating with the music like chaps haying.'

Abel looked in.

'Eh, dear,' he said, 'they're settled there for the neet. We'll ne'er
get a squeak in. There's nought for Black Mountain Band'll stop at
when they're elbow to elbow; they eggs each other on cruel, so they
do! Your ears may be dinned and deafened for life, and you lost to the