and upon my arm.

"Them that sleeps in Jesus rests well, my dear. And, as I said to
Master Jonathan this morning, it ain't fit to overbegrudge them 'ats
gone Home."

I think it was the naming of that Name, in which alone we vanquish the
bitter victories of death, that recalled the verse which had been
floating in my head ever since that evening at the Rectory:

"Jesu, spes poenitentibus,
Quam pius es petentibus!
Quam bonus te quaerentibus!
_Sed quid invenientibus_!"

The loneliness of my childhood had given me a habit of talking to
myself. I did not know that I had quoted that verse of the old hymn
aloud, till I discovered the fact from hearing afterwards, to my no
small surprise, that Betty had reported that I "made a beautiful
prayer over the corpse."

* * * * *

The grim and hideous pomp of the funeral was most oppressive, though
in the abundance of plumes and mutes Mr. Jonathan had, as in the more
graceful tribute of the flowers, honoured his brother nobly after his
manner, which was a commercial one. It was a very expensive "burying."
Alathea did tell me what "the gin and whiskey for the mourners alone
come to," though I have forgotten. But we lost sight of the ignoble
features of the occasion when the sublime office for the Burial of the
Dead began. When it was ended I understood one of Betty's brusque
remarks, which had puzzled me when it came out at breakfast-time.

"You'll 'ave to take what ye can get for your dinners, gentlemen," she
had said; "for the singers is to meet at three, and I can't pretend to
do more nor I can."

The women mourners at the funeral (there were a few) all wore large
black silk hoods, which completely disguised them; but at the end of
the service one of them pushed hers back, and I recognized the golden
hair of Alathea, as she joined a group rather formally collected on
one side of the grave. She looked round as if to see that all were
ready, and then in such a soprano voice as one seldom hears, she
"started" the funeral hymn. It was the Old Psalm--

"O GOD, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come;

Our shelter from life's stormy blast,
And our eternal home."

I had heard very little chorus-singing of any kind; and I did not then
know that for the best I had heard--that of St. George's choir at
Windsor--voices were systematically imported from this particular
district. My experience of village