Martha yielded to his touch, and a puzzled look came over Hiram's face; he had pondered over this last step for four-and-twenty months, and needed a twelvemonth longer in which to make sure of its wisdom. His doubts were settled, however, by the intrusion of the Sexton's wife, who stopped on seeing what was afoot and glanced from Hiram to the empty mug.
"So that's what's browt thee here, Hiram Hey?" she cried. "Tha'rt a bonnie un to come talking o' what's seemly i' a house o' death! First, to drink thyseln dizzy-crazy, an' then to go prettying wi' a wench that mud weel by thy own grandchild. Nay, I've no patience wi' thee; tha'rt owd enough to be thinking o' thy own latter end i'stead o' fly-by-skying wi' lasses, an'——"
Hiram for once could find no answer, but stood ruffling the frill of hair under his clean-shaven chin and shifting his feet from side to side.
"I have talked with my cousin, Nanny," came the Master's voice from the door.
Nanny turned and saw Shameless Wayne standing there, pale and quiet, with the straight downward rent between his brows which seemed to have been fixed there two nights ago for good and all.
"About th' burying, Maister?" she queried eagerly.
"Aye. We are to go armed; the word has been sent round."
"Now God be praised! Ye're wise to list to what Barguest hes to tell," said the Sexton's wife, and forgot to rate the maids, forgot the fifty little household cares that claimed attention.
CHAPTER VIII
A STORMY BURIAL