am's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmould, the sexton and undertaker,
who seemed to be in a pensive meditation upon all the dead that he had
ever buried. He looked upon men in a mild and pitying manner, as if he
forgave them for being in good health. You could not help feeling that
he gazed upon you with a professional eye, and saw just how you would
look in the condition which was to him the most interesting period of a
man's earthly state. He walked with a soft tread, as if he was always at
a funeral; and when he shook your hand, his left hand half followed his
right, as if he were about beginning to lay you out. He was one of the
few men absorbed by his business, and who unconsciously measured all
things from its standpoint.

"Good-morning, Mr. Turfmould! How's your health? How is business with
you?"

"Good--the Lord be praised! I've no reason to complain."

And he glided silently and smoothly into the church.

"There comes Judge Bacon, white and ugly," said the critical Hiram. "I
wonder what he comes to meetin' for. Lord knows he needs it, sly,
slippery old sinner! Face's as white as a lily; his heart's as black as
a chimney flue afore it's cleaned. He'll get his flue burned out if he
don't repent, that's certain. He don't believe the Bible. They say he
don't believe in God. Wal, I guess it's pretty even between 'em.
Shouldn't wonder if God didn't believe in him neither."

As soon as the afternoon service was over, every horse on the green knew
that it was time for him to go home. Some grew restless and whinnied for
their masters. Nimble hands soon put them into the shafts or repaired
any irregularity of harness. Then came such a scramble of vehicles to
the church door for the older persons; while young women and children,
venturing further out upon the green, were taken up hastily, that the
impatient horses might as soon as possible turn their heads homeward.
Clouds of dust began to arise along every outward-going road. In less
than ten minutes not a wagon or chaise was seen upon the village green.
They were whirling homeward at the very best pace that the horses could
raise. Stiff old steeds vainly essayed a nimbler gait, but gave it up in
a few rods, and fell back to the steady jog. Young horses, tired of long
standing, and with a strong yearning for evening oats, shot along the
level ground, rushed up the little hills, or down upon the other side,
in the most un-Sunday-like haste. The scene was not altogether unlik