As she finished, there was another wild burst of hysterical sobbing, and Polly had flung herself in the child's arms, clinging to her, kissing her passionately, as she cried-- "Oh, Budge, my poor girl! Oh, Budge, you'll break my heart!" Tom Morrison could bear no more, but stumbled heavily from the room, down-stairs, and out into his garden, where daybreak found him sitting, with his face buried in his hands, on the bit of rustic seat beneath the old weeping willow that grew in the corner, with its roots washed by the river that formed one of the boundaries of the little freehold. The sun was rising gloriously, and the east was one sheet of gold and orange damask, shot with sapphire, as the sturdy workman rose. "I must be a man over it--a man," he faltered, "for her sake." And he slowly strode into the house, and up-stairs, to find his wife kneeling where he had left her, wakeful and watching, with poor Budge fast asleep, with her head upon Polly's lap, and her two roughened hands holding one of those of her mistress beneath her cheek. The wheelwright walked up to the sleeping babe, and kissed it; then, gently taking Budge's head, he placed it upon a pillow from the bed; while, lastly, he raised poor Polly as though she had been a child, kissed her cold lips, and laid her down, covering her with the clothes, and holding one of her hands, as he bade her sleep; and she obeyed, that is to say, she closed her heavy eyes. In the course of the morning, stern, crotchety old Vinnicombe, the Lawford doctor, sought out the stricken father, finding that he had not been to his workshop, but was down his garden, where, after a few preliminaries, he broke his news. "What?" he said, starting. "There, sir, I'm dazed like now; please, say it again." "I'm very sorry, Morrison--very," said the doctor, "for I respect you greatly, and it must be a great grief to your poor little wife; but I have seen him myself, as I did about Warner's child, and he is very much cut up about it; but as to moving him, he is like iron." "I can't quite understand it, sir," said Tom, flushing. "Do you mean to say, sir, that parson won't bury the child?" "Well, it is like this, Morrison," said the doctor, quietly, "he is a rigid disciplinarian--a man of High Church views, and he says it is impossible for him to read the Burial Service over a child that was not a Christian." "That was not a Christian?" said Tom slowly. "He says he condoles with you, and is very sorry; that the poor little thing can be buried in the unconsecrated part of the churchyard; but he can grant no more."