"Here comes 'Dot-and-Go-One' and his wife. They're my kind o' Christians. She is a saint, at any rate."
"How is it with you, Tommy Taft?"
"Fair to middlin', thank'e. Such weather would make a hand-spike blossom, Hiram."
"Don't you think that's a leetle strong, Tommy, for Sunday? P'raps you mean afore it's cut?"
"Sartin; that's what I mean. But you mustn't stop me, Hiram. Parson Buell 'll be lookin' for me. He never begins till I git there."
"You mean you always git there 'fore he begins."
Next, Hiram's prying eyes saw Mr. Turfmould, the sexton and undertaker, who seemed to be in a pensive meditation upon all the dead that he had ever buried. He looked upon men in a mild and pitying manner, as if he forgave them for being in good health. You could not help feeling that he gazed upon you with a professional eye, and saw just how you would look in the condition which was to him the most interesting period of a man's earthly state. He walked with a soft tread, as if he was always at a funeral; and when he shook your hand, his left hand half followed his right, as if he were about beginning to lay you out. He was one of the few men absorbed by his business, and who unconsciously measured all things from its standpoint.
"Good-morning, Mr. Turfmould! How's your health? How is business with you?"
"Good--the Lord be praised! I've no reason to complain."
And he glided silently and smoothly into the church.