of peace and resignation, his soft white hair, and his slow
yet ever patiently working hands, made up a picture which, set in the
delicate framework of leaf and blossom, was one to impress the
imagination and haunt the memory. Mr. and Mrs. Twitt were constant
visitors, and many were the would-be jocose remarks of the old
stonemason on David's temporary truancy.

"Wanted more work, did ye?" And thrusting his hands deep in the pockets
of his corduroys, Twitt looked at him with a whimsical complacency.
"Well, why didn't ye come down to the stoneyard an' learn 'ow to cut a
hepitaph? Nice chippy, easy work in its way, an' no 'arm in yer sittin'
down to it. Why didn't ye, eh?"

"I've never had enough education for such work as that, Mr. Twitt,"
answered David mildly, with something of a humorous sparkle in his eyes.
"I'm afraid I should spoil more than I could pay for. You want an
artist--not an untrained clumsy old fellow like me."

"Oh, blow artists!" said Mr. Twitt irreverently. "They talks a lot--they
talks yer 'ed off--but they doos onny 'arf the labour as they spends in
waggin' their tongues. An' for a hepitaph, they none of 'em aint got an
idee. It's allus Scripter texes with 'em,--they aint got no 'riginality.
Now I'm a reg'lar Scripter reader, an' nowheres do I find it writ as
we're to use the words o' God Himself to carve on tombstones for our
speshul convenience, cos we aint no notions o' feelin' an' respect of
our own. But artists can't think o' nothin', an' I never cares to employ
'em. Yet for all that there's not a sweeter, pruttier place than our
little cemetery nowheres in all the world. There aint no tyranny in it,
an' no pettifoggin' interference. Why, there's places in England where
ye can't put what ye likes over the grave o' yer dead friends!--ye've
got to 'submit' yer idee to the parzon, or wot's worse, the Corporation,
if ser be yer last go-to-bed place is near a town. There's a town I know
of," and here Mr. Twitt began to laugh,--"wheer ye can't 'ave a moniment
put up to your dead folk without 'subjectin'' the design to the Town
Council--an' we all knows the fine taste o' Town Councils! They'se
'artists,' an' no mistake! I've got the rules of the cemetery of that
town for my own eddification. They runs like this--" And drawing a paper
from his pocket, he read as follows:--

"'All gravestones, monuments, tombs, tablets, memorials, palisades,
curbs, and inscriptions shall be subject to the approval of