better. Oh, how earnestly
he hoped might be so!

But there was no getting better for Madam Melcombe. She sat very still
for some minutes, and looked like one newly awakened and very much
amazed, then, to the great surprise of those about her, she rose without
any aid, and stood holding by her high staff, while, with a slightly
distraught air, she bowed to them, first one and then another.

"Well, I thank you for all your kindness, my dears," she said, "all your
kindness. I may as well go to them now; they've been waiting for me a
long time. Good Lord!" she exclaimed, lifting up her eyes, "Good Lord!
what a meeting it will be!"

Then she sank down into her chair again, and in a moment was gone.

CHAPTER IV.

SWARMS OF CHILDREN.

"As our hope is that this our sister doth."--_Burial Service._

And now was to take place that ceremony to which Madam Melcombe's
thoughts had so often been directed. She had tried to arrange that it
should be imposing, and imposing indeed it was, but not by virtue of the
profusion of the refreshment, not by the presence of the best hearse
from the county town, the best mourning coaches, the grandest plumes,
but by the unsolicited attendance of a great company of people come
together to do homage to a life distinguished by its misfortunes, its
patience, and its charities.

She had never been able to think of herself as taking part in that
ceremony unconsciously; her orders had always been given as if by one
who felt that if things were meanly done she should know it; but in
taking care that refreshments should be provided for all the funeral
attendants, she little thought that the whole parish, men and women,
were to follow her, and most of them in tears. But it was so. The
tenants had been invited; they walked after her in scarf and band, two
and two, and after them, in such mourning as they could afford, came all
the people, and pressed on in a procession that seemed to the real
mourners almost endless, to look down upon her coffin and obtain a place
near her grave.

It was out of doors, and all nature was in white. Round the churchyard
pear-trees grew, and leaned their laden branches over its walls.
Pear-trees, apple-trees, and cherries filled the valley and crowded one
another up all the hills. Mr. Craik's voice, as he stood at the grave,
also in white, was heard that quiet afternoon far and near. It was
remarked on all sides how impressively he read, and there were plen