olemn words of the Burial Service.

Roger himself, with that waywardness of the attention which afflicts us
even in the gravest acts of our life, found himself listening to the
words in a sort of dream, while his mind was occupied in reading over to
himself the names of his ancestors inscribed on the panels of the vault.

"John Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, who died ye ninth day of June, 1760,
aetat 74.

"Peter Ingleton of Maxfield Manor, his son, obiit March 6, 1794.

"Paul Ingleton, only son of above Peter; born January 1, 1790, died
September 20, 1844.

"Ruth, beloved wife of Roger Ingleton, Esquire, of Maxfield Manor, who
died on February 14, 1865, aged 37."

Now a new inscription would be added.

"Roger Ingleton, son of the above-named Paul Ingleton, who died January
10, 1885."

And when that was added, there would yet be space for another name
below.

Roger shuddered a little, and brought his mind back with an effort to
the solemn act which was taking place.

The clergyman's voice ceased, and the fatherless lad stooped to get a
last view of the flower-covered coffin. Then, with a heart lonelier
than he had ever known it before, he turned away.

The people fell back and made a silent lane for him to pass.

"Poor lad," said a country wife, as she looked after him, "pity knows,
he'll be this way again before long."

"Hold thy tongue," said another; "thee'd look white and shaky if thee
was the only man of thy name left on earth--eh, Uncle Hodder?"

"Let un go," said the venerable proprietor of the tutor's borrowed horse
last week, "let 'un go. The Ingletons was all weaklings, but they held
out to nigh on threescore and ten years. All bar the best of them--
there was naught weak about him, yet he dropped off in blossom-time."

"Ay, ay, poor lad," said the elder of the women in a whisper, "pity of
the boy. He'd have taken the load on his shoulders to-day better than
yonder white child."

"Hold thy tongue and come and take thy look at the old Squire's last
lying-place."

Roger overheard none of their talk, but wandered on, lonely, but angry
with himself for feeling as unemotional as he did. He told the coachman
he would walk home, and started along the half-thawed lanes, hoping that
the five miles solitary walk would help to bring him into a frame of
mind more appropriate to the occasion.

But try as he would, his mind wandered; first to his mother; then to
Maxfield and the villagers; then to hi