"Well, sir," said Mr. Spadeley graciously, "I do have to look out for pretty texts for the tombstones often, for you see when the country folk bring no verses of their own composing, and not boasting much of a gift that ways myself, I fall back upon the Bible, and we're sure to come at something comfortable. But that reminds me of poor old Hayes. Have you seen him lately, sir?"
"The gardener at the Moat? Yes, I see him every day, and a more true, simple-hearted believer in our Lord Jesus Christ does not lie ready for the summons home."
"Amen, and right, sir. Well, you see when I knew he wasn't going to get better, I thought I would ask him about his epitaph, for he must have a head-stone, and it shall be a good one, and I naturally wanted something nice to carve on it. And what do you think he chose, sir? It do downright get over me. None of the pretty verses I told him of would do."
"'Chief of sinners,'" suggested Mr. Herbert. "I know he feels like that."
"Well, he did name it, and I said out flat, No, I wouldn't put it; I'd have more words to make my work worth while. So he thought a bit, and then he said, 'Few and evil have the days of the years of my life been,' and there he's stuck ever since, and I can't move him, so I shall have to do it, I s'pose, for I wouldn't rile a passing spirit."
"And," said the clergyman, "since you don't mind the work, my kind friend, you shall add something to it at my expense whenever the time comes, and it shall be this, 'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.' 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, be glory and dominion for ever.' I feel sure our dear old brother will not object to that addition."
"Well, he's a real gentleman, our young parson is, though I say it, that's part of the profession in a way," said the clerk and sexton, resuming his pipe, as the clergyman bade them good-night and walked away.
"A real Christian, too, I should say," added Mr. Turnbull; "though they did say he'd been among the Methodies. Never mind that; he's the right sort to comfort the poor lady and her children in their troubles."
"Ah! Poor, dear lady!" ejaculated the sexton. "I mean to beg a last favour of her before she goes, that she'll be sure to come back to be buried in the old vault under the cedars,—for I shouldn't like anybody to do it for her but me, nor for her to lie anywhere but amongst her own kin, and I dare say our parson would like to read the service over her his own self. Good-night, and thank you, landlord; I shall just call in and see how Hayes does to-night, and tell him about the epitaph, and cheer him up a bit."
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