use. But while Ironsyde left Bridetown and lived
henceforth at Bridport, that he might develop further interests in the
spinning trade, Ernest had been well content to remain there, enjoy his
regular income and live at 'The Magnolias,' his father's old-world
house, beside the river. His tastes were antiquarian and literary. He
wrote when in the mood, and sometimes read papers at the Mechanics'
Institute of Bridport. But he was constitutionally averse from real work
of any sort, lacked ambition, and found all the fame he needed in the
village community with which his life had been passed. He was a
childless widower. Mr. Churchouse strolled now into the churchyard to
look at the grave. It opened beside that of Henry Ironsyde's parents and
his wife. She had been dead for fifteen years. A little crowd peered
down into the green-clad pit, for the sides, under the direction of John
Best, had been lined with cypress and bay. The grass was rank, but it
had been mown down for this occasion round the tombs of the Ironsydes,
though elsewhere darnel rose knee deep and many venerable stones slanted
out of it. Immediately south of the churchyard wall stood the Mill, and
Benny Cogle, engineman at the works, who now greeted Mr. Churchouse,
dwelt on the fact.

"Morning, sir," he said, "a brave day for the funeral, sure enough."

"Good morning, Benny," answered the other. His voice was weak and
gentle.

"When I think how near the church and Mill do lie together, I have
thoughts," continued Benny. He was a florid man of thirty, with
tow-coloured hair and blue eyes.

"Naturally. You work and pray here all inside a space of fifty yards.
But for my part, Benny Cogle, I am inclined to think that working is the
best form of praying."

Mr. Churchouse always praised work for others and, indeed, was under the
impression that he did his share.

"Same here," replied the engineman, "especially while you're young.
Anyway, if I had to choose between 'em, I'd sooner work. 'Tis better for
the mind and appetite. And I lay if Mr. Ironsyde, when he lies down
there, could tell the truth, he'd rather be hearing the Mill going six
days a week and feeling his grave throbbing to my engines, than list to
the sound of the church organ on the seventh."

"Not so," reproved Mr. Churchouse. "We must not go so far as that. Henry
Ironsyde was a God-fearing man and respected the Sabbath as we all
should, and most of us do."

"The weaker vessels come to church,