I grant," said Benny, "but the men
be after more manly things than church-going of a Sunday nowadays."

"So much the worse for them," declared Mr. Churchouse. "Here," he
continued, "there are naturally more women than men. Since my father and
Henry Ironsyde's father established these mills, which are now justly
famous in the county, the natural result has happened and women have
come here in considerable numbers. Women preponderate in spinning
places, because the work of spinning yarn has always been in their hands
from time immemorial. And they tend our modern machinery as deftly as of
old they twirled the distaff and worked the spinning-wheel; and as
steadily as they used to trudge the rope walks and spin, like spiders,
from the masses of flax or hemp at their waists."

"The females want religion without a doubt," said Benny. "I'm tokened to
Mercy Gale, for instance; she looks after the warping wheels, and if
that girl didn't say her prayers some fine morning, she'd be as useless
as if she hadn't eat her breakfast. 'Tis the feminine nature that craves
for support."

A very old man stood and peered into the grave. He was the father of
Levi Baggs, the hackler, and people said he was never seen except on the
occasion of a funeral. The ancient had been reduced to a mere wisp by
the attrition of time.

He put his hand on the arm of Mr. Churchouse and regarded the grave with
a nodding head.

"Ah, my dear soul," he said. "Life, how short--eternity, how long!"

"True, most true, William."

"And I ask myself, as each corpse goes in, how many more pits will open
afore mine."

"'Tis hid with your Maker, William."

"Thank God I'm a good old man and ripe and ready," said Mr. Baggs.
"Not," he added, "that there's any credit to me; for you can't be
anything much but good at ninety-two."

"While the brain is spared we can think evil, William."

"Not a brain like mine, I do assure 'e."

A little girl ran into the churchyard--a pretty, fair child, whose
bright hair contrasted with the black she wore.

"They have come and father sent me to tell you, Mr. Churchouse," she
said.

"Thank you, Estelle," he answered, and they returned to the open space
together. The child then joined her father, and Mr. Churchouse, saluting
the dead, walked to the first mourning coach and opened the door.

It was a heavy and solid funeral of Victorian fashion proper to the
time. The hearse had been drawn by four black horses with black
tr