the worm that never dies; feel the licking fire of the curling flames; hear the voice of the Man of Sorrows calling us away from destruction. I heard such a man once at Pimpernel.
And now we are out again, and walking across the churchyard; and the sun flickers down gaily on the living who walk erect, and on the green shield of earth that lies heavy on the breast of those who have "fought their fight with the pale warrior," and been vanquished, as all men have been and must be. At the gate the carriages are waiting, for Luttrell Court is more than two miles away, and I find myself seated next to Mr. Vasher, and opposite Milly and Mrs. Lister.
"How well you behaved in church," says Paul, "you never smiled once, not even when that fat lady tried to pass the fat man in the narrow pew, and they got wedged together!"
"Did I not!" I say laughing. "And yet I could not help thinking of a rhyme in one of the nursery books at home—
Who went up to church in a barrow,
She said with a smile,
As she stuck in the aisle,
They build these here churches too narrow!"
"The lady in church must have been a direct descendant of the one at Yarrow," says Paul, looking at me.
I hope he is not observing the crushed and forlorn appearance of my bonnet: in future I will, at all risks, carry a band-box. Milly's airy erection is quite faultless. How good-tempered people ought to feel when they are perfectly well dressed! I could be quite angelic, I think, if I were. Mrs. Lister looks as prim and unapproachable as though she were made of buckram. Her lips are pursed up very tight; she grasps her prayer-book as though it were a pistol, and altogether she is not a pleasant object to contemplate.
