weather after days of
rain. Mrs. Thornburgh's personal accent, so to speak, had grown perhaps
a little more defined, a little more emphatic even, than when we first
knew her. The Vicar, on the other hand, was a trifle grayer, a trifle
more submissive, as though on the whole, in the long conjugal contest
of life, he was getting clearly worsted as the years went on. But
the performance through which his wife was now taking him tried him
exceptionally, and she only kept him to it with difficulty. She had
had an attack of bronchitis in the spring, and was still somewhat
delicate--a fact which to his mind gave her an unfair advantage of him.
For she would make use of it to keep constantly before him ideas which
he disliked, and in which he considered she took a morbid and unbecoming
pleasure. The Vicar was of opinion that when his latter end overtook him
he should meet it on the whole as courageously as other men. But he
was altogether averse to dwelling upon it, or the adjuncts of it,
beforehand. Mrs. Thornburgh, however, since her illness had awoke to
that inquisitive affectionate interest in these very adjuncts which many
women feel. And it was extremely disagreeable to the Vicar.

At the present moment she was engaged in choosing the precise spots in
the little churchyard where it seemed to her it would be pleasant to
rest. There was one corner in particular which attracted her, and she
stood now looking at it with measuring eyes and dissatisfied mouth.

'William, I wish you would come here and help me!'

The Vicar took no notice, but went on talking to Rose.

'William!' imperatively.

The Vicar turned unwillingly.

'You know, William, if you wouldn't mind lying with your foot _that_
way, there would be just room for me. But of course if you _will_ have
them the other way----' The shoulders in the old black silk mantle went
up, and the gray curls shook dubiously.

The Vicar's countenance showed plainly that he thought the remark worse
than irrelevant.

'My dear,' he said crossly, 'I am not thinking of those things, nor do I
wish to think of them. Everything has its time and place. It is close on
tea, and Miss Rose says we must be going home.'

Mrs. Thornburgh again shook her head, this time with a disapproving
sigh.

'You talk, William,' she said severely, 'as if you were a young man,
instead of being turned sixty-six last birthday.'

And again she measured the spaces with her eye, checking the results
alo