Mr Paulby, sir, he said, I thank you. I cant say all I feel, sir, but my poor wife and I thank you with all our hearts for what youve just said for us. Im only a poor ignorant man, sir, but if I couldnt feel that what youve said is just and true, I should be ready to do what so many here have done go to the chapel. That wouldnt be like the Morrisons though, sir. Weve been church-folk, sir, for a couple of hundred years, and if you go round the churchyard, sir, you will see stone after stone marked with the name of Morrison, sir; some just worn out with age, and others growing plainer, till you come to that new one out by the big tower, where my poor old father was laid five years ago. Theres generations and generations of my people, sir, lying sleeping there the whole family of the Morrisons, sir, save them as left their bones in foreign lands, or were sunk in the deep seas, sir, fighting for their country. And now my little one is to be kept out. Oh, parson, its too bad, and youll repent all this. Mr Paulby, sir, God bless you for your words. Good-bye!
He strode out of the room, and the two clergymen stood listening to his heavy feet as he crossed the hall and passed out of the house. For a few minutes neither spoke.
At length the Curate broke the silence. The fire had gone out of his voice, and the light from his eye, as he said in a low voice
Mr Mallow, I am very, very sorry that this should have occurred.
And at a time when I am fighting so hard to win these erring people to a better way, Mr Paulby, said the Rector, sternly.
And I have tried so hard too, Mr Mallow, said the Curate, plaintively. When they all seem bent on going to one or the other of the chapels here.
I do not wonder, sir, said the Rector, but I do wonder that my own curate should turn against me.
No, do; not turn against you, sir. I wished to help.
Mr Paulby, I regret it much, but I shall be obliged to ask you to resign.
No, no, sir; I beg you will not, cried the Curate, excitedly. I have grown to love the people here, and
Mr Paulby, said the Rector, our opinions upon the duties of a priest are opposite. You will excuse me I wish to be alone.
The Curate stood for a moment or two with his hand extended,
where, with the moonlight full upon it, lay the tiny coffin, bathed in a silvery flood of light.
Biggins had obeyed his friends instructions, even as if it had been for one of his own, and the simple silver ornamentation shone upon the coarse white cloth.
The tear-blinded pair lingered for a few moments without approaching their sacred dead; but at last they stood beside it, and the young mother removed the lid that lightly pressed the flowers which covered the tiny breast.
Their loving lips kissed, for the last time, the cold, waxen forehead; and a groan escaped from Pollys heart as the lid was replaced closely, this time by the fathers hands.
Hush, Polly, he whispered, you said you would be strong.
I will, I will, she sighed. And they stood for a few moments, hand clasped in hand, with the silence only broken by a smothered sob from below.
At last, reverently taking the little coffin in his arms, Tom Morrison bore it slowly down the stairs, followed by his weeping wife, who held something white in her hands, and this she laid over the coffin like a little pall.
Poor Budge was there, trying hard to keep down her grief, but a wail would burst forth; and covering her mouth tightly with her hands, she darted away into the back kitchen.
It was the little christening robe, that was to have been worn next day; and drip after drip, to form dark spots in the moonlight, the hot, burning tears of anguish fell from the mothers eyes as they slowly bore the little burden out into the garden, down the neat path, and away to the corner where the willow laved its long green branches in the brook a veritable stream of silver now, dancing and sparkling in the beams of the broad-faced moon.
Where Tom Morrison stopped at last, beneath the willow, was his evenings work a small, dark trench, lying amidst the mellow, sweet-scented, newly-turned earth; and here, upon his own land, he was about to lay the dead to be sown in corruption, to be raised in incorruption in soil unconsecrated, and without the rites of the Church.
Unconsecrated? No, it was consecrated by the loving tears that bedewed the earth, and fell upon the little white coffin as it was tenderly lowered to its resting-place; and, failing rites, the stricken pair kneeled on either side in the soft mould, and, joining hands, prayed that they might meet again.
Toms words were few; but simple and earnest was his prayer as ever fell from the lips of man; while, kneeling at the foot of the grave was poor Budge, who only burst forth with a sob when all was over. For the mother stayed while the earth was reverently drawn over the cold bed, till a little hillock of black soil lay silvered by the dropping moonbeams falling through the willow boughs.
It was poor Budge who laid her offering a bunch of daisies upon the little grave, while Tom led his trembling wife back to their desolate home.