st
honour. As the poor tramping old basket-maker, whose failing strength
would not allow him to earn much of a living, his simple funeral was
attended by nearly a whole village,--honest men who stood respectfully
bareheaded as the coffin was lowered into the grave--kind-hearted women
who wept for "poor lonely soul"--as they expressed it,--and little
children who threw knots of flowers into that mysterious dark hole in
the ground "where people went to sleep for a little, and then came out
again as angels"--as their parents told them. It was a simple ceremony,
performed in a spirit of perfect piety, and without any hypocrisy or
formality. And when it was all over, and the villagers had dispersed to
their homes, Mr. Twitt on his way "down street," as he termed it, from
the churchyard, paused at Mary Deane's cottage to unburden his mind of a
weighty resolution.

"Ye see, Mis' Deane, it's like this," he said--"I as good as promised
the poor old gaffer as I'd do 'im a tombstone for nuthin', an' I'm 'ere
to say as I aint a-goin' back on that. But I must take my time on it.
I'd like to think out a speshul hepitaph--an' doin' portry takes a bit
of 'ard brain work. So when the earth's set down on 'is grave a bit, an'
the daisies is a-growin' on the grass, I'll mebbe 'ave got an idea
wot'll please ye. 'E aint left any mossel o' paper writ out like, with
wot 'e'd like put on 'im, I s'pose?"

Mary felt the colour rush to her face.

"N--no! Not that I know of, Mr. Twitt," she said. "He has left a few
papers which I promised him I would take to a friend of his, but I
haven't even looked at them yet, and don't know to whom they are
addressed. If I find anything I'll let you know."

"Ay, do so!" and Twitt rubbed his chin meditatively. "I wouldn't run
agin' 'is wishes for anything if ser be I can carry 'em out. I considers
as 'e wor a very fine sort--gentle as a lamb, an' grateful for all wot
was done for 'im, an' I wants to be as friendly to 'im in 'is death as I
wos in 'is life--ye understand?"

"Yes--I know--I quite understand," said Mary. "But there's plenty of
time---"

"Yes, there's plenty of time!" agreed Twitt. "But, lor,' if you could
only know what a pain it gives me in the 'ed to work the portry out of
it, ye wouldn't wonder at my preparin' ye, as 'twere. Onny I wishes ye
just to understand that it'll all be done for love--an' no charge."

Mary thanked him smiling, yet with tears in her eyes, and he strolled
away down