"You are the sexton," said she, addressing him in a voice sweet and musical.
"I am," returned Peter. It was harmony succeeded by dissonance.
"You, perhaps, can tell us, then," said the elderly lady, "whether the funeral is likely to take place to-night? We thought it possible that the storm might altogether prevent it."
"The storm is over, as nearly as maybe," replied Peter. "The body will soon be on its way. I am but now arrived from the hall."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the lady. "None of the family will be present, I suppose. Who is the chief mourner?"
"Young Sir Ranulph," answered the sexton. "There will be more of the family than were expected."
"Is Sir Ranulph returned?" asked the young lady, with great agitation of manner. "I thought he was abroad—that he was not expected. Are you sure you are rightly informed?"
"I parted with him at the hall not ten minutes since," replied Peter. "He returned from France to-night most unexpectedly."
"Oh, mother!" exclaimed the younger lady, "that this should be—that I should meet him here. Why did we come?—let us depart."
"Impossible!" replied her mother; "the storm forbids it. This man's information is so strange, I scarce can credit it. Are you sure you have asserted the truth?" said she, addressing Peter.