eat nor drink within the house; and she, and Barnaby, and Grip,
accordingly went out as they had come, by the private stair and
garden-gate; seeing and being seen of no one by the way.

It was remarkable in the raven that during the whole interview he
had kept his eye on his book with exactly the air of a very sly human
rascal, who, under the mask of pretending to read hard, was listening to
everything. He still appeared to have the conversation very strongly in
his mind, for although, when they were alone again, he issued orders for
the instant preparation of innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he
was thoughtful, and rather seemed to do so from an abstract sense of
duty, than with any regard to making himself agreeable, or being what is
commonly called good company.

They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full two
hours before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment,
Barnaby begged hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had
no wish to be recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and
who feared besides that Mr Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch
some messenger to that place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed
to wait in the churchyard instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy
and carry thither such humble viands as they required, he cheerfully
assented, and in the churchyard they sat down to take their frugal
dinner.

Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and
down when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was
strongly suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and
appearing to read the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes,
after a long inspection of an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the
grave to which it referred, and cry in his hoarse tones, 'I'm a devil,
I'm a devil, I'm a devil!' but whether he addressed his observations to
any supposed person below, or merely threw them off as a general remark,
is matter of uncertainty.

It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for Mr
Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested,
was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription
recording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful
and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the
coach was coming.

Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up qu