for poor Mrs. Jethway.'

Martin Cannister, the sexton, was rather a favourite with Elfride. He
used to absorb her attention by telling her of his strange experiences
in digging up after long years the bodies of persons he had known, and
recognizing them by some little sign (though in reality he had never
recognized any). He had shrewd small eyes and a great wealth of double
chin, which compensated in some measure for considerable poverty of
nose.

The appearance of a slip of paper in Cannister's hand, and a few
shillings lying on the table in front of him, denoted that the business
had been transacted, and the tenor of their conversation went to
show that a summary of village news was now engaging the attention of
parishioner and parson.

Mr. Cannister stood up and touched his forehead over his eye with his
finger, in respectful salutation of Elfride, gave half as much salute to
Stephen (whom he, in common with other villagers, had never for a moment
recognized), then sat down again and resumed his discourse.

'Where had I got on to, sir?'

'To driving the pile,' said Mr. Swancourt.

'The pile 'twas. So, as I was saying, Nat was driving the pile in this
manner, as I might say.' Here Mr. Cannister held his walking-stick
scrupulously vertical with his left hand, and struck a blow with great
force on the knob of the stick with his right. 'John was steadying the
pile so, as I might say.' Here he gave the stick a slight shake, and
looked firmly in the various eyes around to see that before proceeding
further his listeners well grasped the subject at that stage. 'Well,
when Nat had struck some half-dozen blows more upon the pile, 'a stopped
for a second or two. John, thinking he had done striking, put his hand
upon the top o' the pile to gie en a pull, and see if 'a were firm in
the ground.' Mr. Cannister spread his hand over the top of the stick,
completely covering it with his palm. 'Well, so to speak, Nat hadn't
maned to stop striking, and when John had put his hand upon the pile,
the beetle----'

'Oh dreadful!' said Elfride.

'The beetle was already coming down, you see, sir. Nat just caught sight
of his hand, but couldn't stop the blow in time. Down came the beetle
upon poor John Smith's hand, and squashed en to a pummy.'

'Dear me, dear me! poor fellow!' said the vicar, with an intonation like
the groans of the wounded in a pianoforte performance of the 'Battle of
Prague.'

'John Smith, the master-mason?'