of
last night he had not expected this. Reassured, he began a voluble
explanation of his movements and plans, rubbing his hands together and
turning one boot against the other.

He had a great deal to say, because he had seen neither of his sisters
for a very long time. Then he wished to make a good impression because
Maggie, the heiress, would be of importance now. What an idiot he had
been last night. What had he done? He could remember nothing. It was
evident that it had been nothing very bad--Maggie bore him no
grudge--good girl, Maggie. He felt affectionate towards her and would
have told her so had her aunt not been present. These thoughts underlay
his rambling history. He was aware suddenly that his audience was
inattentive. He saw, indeed, that his sister was standing with her back
half-turned, gazing on to the shining country beyond the window. He
ceased abruptly, gave his niece a wink, and when this was unsuccessful,
muttering a few words, stumbled out of the room.

The whole village attended the funeral, not because it liked the Rev.
Charles, but because it liked funerals. Maggie was, in all probability,
the only person present who thought very deeply about the late Vicar of
St. Dreot's. The Rev. Tom Trefusis who conducted the ceremony was a
large red-faced man who had played Rugby football for his University
and spent most of his energy over the development of cricket and
football clubs up and down the county. He could not be expected to have
cared very greatly for the Rev. Charles, who had been at no period of
his life and in no possible sense of the word a sportsman. As he
conducted the service his mind speculated as to the next vicar (the
Rev. Tom knew an excellent fellow, stroke of the Cambridge boat in '12,
who would be just the man) the possibility of the frost breaking in
time for the inter-county Rugby match at Truxe, the immediate return of
his wife from London (he was very fond of his wife), and, lastly, a
certain cramp in the stomach that sometimes "bowled him over" and of
which the taking of a funeral--"here to-day and gone to-morrow"--always
reminded him.

"Wonder how long I'll last," he thought as he stood over the grave of
the Rev. Charles and let his eyes wander over the little white
gravestones that ran almost into the dark wall of St. Dreot Woods as
though they were trying to hide themselves. "Wish the frost 'ud
break--ground'll be as hard as nails." The soil fell, thump, thump upon
the