in-Charge, sat in the
garden before his cottage and smoked his pipe while he meditated a
sermon. That is to say, he intended to meditate a sermon. But the
afternoon was warm: the bees hummed drowsily among the wallflowers
and tulips. From the bench his eyes followed the vale's descent
between overlapping billows of cherry blossom to a gap wherein shone
the silver Tamar--not, be it understood, the part called Hamoaze,
where lay the warships and the hulks containing the French prisoners,
but an upper reach seldom troubled by shipping.

Parson Spettigew laid the book face-downwards on his knee while his
lips murmured a part of the text he had chosen: "_A place of broad
rivers and streams . . . wherein shall go no galley with oars,
neither shall gallant ship pass thereby_. . . ." His pipe went out.
The book slipped from his knee to the ground. He slumbered.

The garden gate rattled, and he awoke with a start. In the pathway
below him stood a sailor; a middle-sized, middle-aged man, rigged out
in best shore-going clothes--shiny tarpaulin hat, blue coat and
waistcoat, shirt open at the throat, and white duck trousers with
broad-buckled waistbelt.

"Beggin' your Reverence's pardon," began the visitor, touching the
brim of his hat, and then upon second thoughts uncovering, "but my
name's Jope--Ben Jope."

"Eh? . . . What can I do for you?" asked Parson Spettigew, a trifle
flustered at being caught napping.

"--Of the _Vesoovius_ bomb, bo's'n," pursued Mr. Jope, with a smile
that disarmed annoyance, so ingenuous it was, so friendly, and withal
so respectful: "but paid off at eight this morning. Maybe your
Reverence can tell me whereabouts to find an embalmer in these
parts?"

"A--a _what?_"

"Embalmer." Mr. Jope chewed thoughtfully for a moment or two upon a
quid of tobacco. "Sort of party you'd go to supposin' as you had a
corpse by you and wanted to keep it for a permanency. You take a lot
of gums and spices, and first of all you lays out the deceased, and
next--"

"Yes, yes," the Parson interrupted hurriedly; "I know the process, of
course."

"What? to _practise_ it?" Hope illumined Mr. Jope's countenance.

"No, most certainly not. . . . But, my good man,--an embalmer! and at
Botusfleming, of all places!"

The sailor's face fell. He sighed patiently.

"That's what they said at Saltash, more or less. I got a sister
living there--Sarah Treleaven her name is--a widow-woman, and sells
fish. When I