The monotonous
oscillation of the pendulum, sounding as the stroke of a passing
bell, gathered solemnity of tone in the felt hush that rested upon
all in the room--a hush as deep as that which rested upon the
dead. All eyes, under the cover of stealthily drooping lids, stole
glances at old Joseph, whose face fought hard to hide the emotions
running like pulsing tides beneath the surface. At last a woman,
whose threescore years and ten was the only warrant for her rude
interruption, exclaimed:

'Wheer's th' parson? Hes he forgetten, thinksto?'

'Mr. Penrose is ill i' bed,' replied old Joseph, 'but I seed Mr.
Hanson fra Burnt Hill Chapel, and he promised as he'd be here in
his place.'

The clock beat out its seconds with the same monotonous sound, and
the finger crept towards the fateful hour. Then came the wheeze
and whir preliminary to the strokes of four, conveying to familiar
ears that only eight more minutes remained. At this warning Joseph
arose from his seat, and, walking out into the graveyard, made
direct to an eminence overlooking the long trend of road, and,
raising one hand to shade his now failing sight, looked down the
valley to see if the minister was on his way to the grave. It was
in vain. Tears began to dim his sight, and for a moment the man
overcame the sexton. The struggle was but brief; in another moment
he was again the sexton. Returning to the cottage, he scarcely
reached the threshold before he cried out, with all the firmness
of his cruelly professional tones:

'Parson or no parson, aat o' this dur (door) hoo goes at four
o'clock.'

As the clock struck the fateful hour the old woman was carried to
her grave; and as they lowered her, Joseph, with uncovered head,
let fall the clods from his own hand, repeating, in a hoarse yet
tremulous voice, the words:

'Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.'

In another moment the old sexton reeled, and fell into the arms of
the men who stood near him. It was but a passing weakness, for he
soon pulled himself together, and accompanied the mourners to the
funeral tea, which was served in a neighbouring house.

Never afterwards, however, was old Joseph heard to rail at
mourners when late, or known to close the Rehoboth gates against
an overdue funeral.

II.

A CHILD OF THE HEATHER.

'What, Milly! Sitting in the dark?' asked Mr. Penrose, as he
entered the chamber of the suffering child, who was gazing through
the open window at the