that that part of his life should not be renewed. In the midst of the
general grief, and the corpse still lying above, he had leisure to
conclude that he would have it all holidays for the future, that he
wouldn't get up till he liked, or stand the bullying of the Doctor any
more, and had made a hundred of such day-dreams and resolves for the
future. How one's thoughts will travel! and how quickly our wishes beget
them! When he with Laura in his hand went into the kitchen on his way to
the dog-kennel, the fowl-houses, and other his favourite haunts, all the
servants there assembled in great silence with their friends, and the
labouring men and their wives, and Sally Potter who went with the
post-bag to Clavering, and the baker's man from Clavering--all there
assembled and drinking beer on the melancholy occasion--rose up on his
entrance and bowed or curtseyed to him. They never used to do so last
holidays, he felt at once and with indescribable pleasure. The cook cried
out, "O Lord," and whispered, "How Master Arthur do grow!" Thomas, the
groom, in the act of drinking, put down the jug alarmed before his
master. Thomas's master felt the honour keenly. He went through and
looked at the pointers. As Flora put her nose up to his waistcoat, and
Ponto, yelling with pleasure, hurtled at his chain, Pen patronised the
dogs, and said, "Poo Ponto, poo Flora," in his most condescending manner.
And then he went and looked at Laura's hens, and at the pigs, and at the
orchard, and at the dairy; perhaps he blushed to think that it was only
last holidays he had in a manner robbed the great apple-tree, and been
scolded by the dairymaid for taking cream.

They buried John Pendennis, Esquire, "formerly an eminent medical
practitioner at Bath, and subsequently an able magistrate, a benevolent
landlord, and a benefactor to many charities and public institutions in
this neighbourhood and county," with one of the most handsome funerals
that had been seen since Sir Roger Clavering was buried here, the clerk