y to indulge in dry jest, though the
sternness of his gray eye seemed to contradict the tacit assertion.

"An unpleasant morning, sir, to work in the open air," said I.

"He that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," replied the grave
digger, still plying his spade. "Death stalks abroad fair day and foul
day, and we that follow in his footsteps must prepare for the dead,
rain or shine."

"A melancholy occupation."

"A fit one for a moralist. Some would find a pleasure in it. Deacon
Giles, I am sure, would willingly be in my place now."

"And why so?"

"This grave is for his wife," replied the grave digger, looking up
from his occupation with a dry smile that wrinkled his sallow cheek
and distorted his shrunken lips. Perceiving that his merriment was not
infectious, he resumed his employment, and that so assiduously, that
in a very short time he had hollowed the last resting-place of Deacon
Giles's consort. This done, he ascended from the trench with a
lightness that surprised me, and walking a few paces from the new-made
grave, sat down upon a tombstone, and beckoned me to approach. I did
so.

"Young man," said he, "a sexton and a grave digger, if he is one who
has a zeal for his calling, becomes something of an historian,
amassing many a curious tale and strange legend concerning the people
with whom he has to do, living and dead. For a man with a taste for
his profession cannot provide for the last repose of his fellows
without taking an interest in their story, the manner of their death,
and the concern of the relatives who follow their remains so tearfully
to the grave."

"Then," replied I, taking a seat beside the sexton, "methinks you
could relate some interesting tales."

Again the withering smile that I had before observed passed over the
face of the sexton, as he answered,--

"I am no story teller, sir; I deal in fact, not fiction. Yes, yes, I
could chronicle some strange events. But of all things I know, there
is nothing stranger than the melancholy history of the three brides."

"The three brides?"

"Ay. Do you see three hillocks yonder, side by side? There they sleep,
and will till the last trumpet comes wailing and wailing through the
heart of these lone hills, with a tone so strange and stirring, that
the dead will start from their graves at its first awful note. Then
will come the judgment and the retribution. But to my tale. Look
there, sir; on yonder hill you may observe a little isolate