Foyle’s jocularity diminished after a time, and he set off for the churchyard in a depressed and uncomfortable frame of mind. What was the woman driving at—what more in the name of goodness could she want?
He paced up and down the path nearest the gate for some time, and then, suddenly recalling the fact that he had not yet attended to the stove connected with the heating apparatus of the church, hurried off to accomplish this duty.
On his return he descried a tall figure in black making its way, not towards him, but towards that portion of the churchyard wherein reposed the mortal remains of the lamented Mr. Sibley.
After some hesitation the sexton followed, and Mrs. Sibley, having deposited a wreath of evergreens on the grave, turned round with a mournful expression.
“At such times as these, Mr. Foyle,” she remarked, “the mind do nat’rally feel m’urnful.”
“True, true!” agreed the sexton uncomfortably.
“He was a good husband, Mr. Foyle,” said the widow in a melancholy tone.
“To be sure,” said John doubtfully.
“I shall never look upon his like again,” resumed Mrs. Sibley, shaking her head.
The sexton glanced from her disconsolate face to the wreath of evergreens, and then back again. Mrs. Sibley was still shaking her head with an air of gentle resignation.