And below was a similar epitaph for “Lydia Elizabeth, relict of Samuel Robert Mitchell.”
At the foot of this was a text, cut in larger letters than the rest: “In death they were not divided.”
“They were in life though,” murmured Ned, shaking his head slowly. “Never a meal passed but they were at it, hammer and tongs, about something or other. Marble had need to be tough or it would split up into shivers under the weight of lies we put on it.”
At that moment he became aware that the vicar, who had come over the grass from his house, was standing behind him looking much amused.
“Thinking aloud!” said Mr. Brander. “A bad habit, Mr. Mitchell. Imagine what it might lead to if one had any crime on one’s conscience.”
“But parsons are supposed never to commit crimes, aren’t they?”
“Or never to have any consciences?”
“No, I won’t say that. The only criminal of your cloth that has happened to come in my way has felt many a prick of conscience, I’m ready to wager.”
The vicar looked at him inquiringly, and did not attempt to hide that he felt some anxiety as to the other’s meaning.
“Whoever he may be, I hope so, for the credit of my order,” said he, gravely.