Tom waited till his friend, now suddenly grown voluble, had ceased. "Joe Biggins," he said, "didst ever know old parson--God bless him!--to refuse to bury any one out of the place because--because they wasn't baptised?" "Never," said Biggins--"never," energetically. "He never had such a case, p'raps," said Tom. "Oh, but he did," said Biggins--"even in my time. Why, there was poor Lizzy Baker's child. You knew Sam Baker?" Tom nodded. "Well, when their little one died it hadn't been christened, I know. I remember father talking about it while he made the coffin, and I recollect it so well because it was the first coffin I ever put the nails in all by myself. Let's see, that's a good fifteen year ago now, Tom, that it be." "And he buried it?" "To be sure he did. Why, I remember as well as if it had been yesterday. He says to my father, he says, `I never like to be too partic'lar about these baptismal matters. It's not 'cording to church law, but I couldn't put such a sorrow on the poor father and mother as to refuse the service, and I hope I'm right.'" "He said so?" whispered the wheelwright, half turning away his face. "I can't as a man, Tom, sweer to the zact words," said the carpenter, earnestly; "but I'll sweer as they meant all that, long ago as it is." "God bless him!" muttered Tom, with his lower lip working. "Old parson wasn't particular about those sort o' things. Don't you remember about poor old Dick Granger? To be sure--yes--we were boys then, and went to Humphrey Bone. Ay, and what a rage he do wax in again parson now, toe be sewer. I recklect father talking about it. You remember, sewer_ly_, old Granger went off his head, and drowned himself in Cook's mill dam, and the jury said it was _felo de se_; and Johnson up at the Red Cow was foreman, and wanted him to be buried at the cross roads, with a stake druv through his heart. Why, it's all come back now. I recklect it all; how old parson went to the poor old widow, and talked to her; and there was a big funeral. Everybody went to see poor old Granger buried in the churchyard; and he was buried all regular, and parson preached the next Sunday about brotherly love and Christian charity. Why, Tom, you and I was about seventeen then. How time do go!" "Yes--I remember," said the wheelwright, bowing his head. "Ah," said Biggins, "those were the days, Tom; even if one did get to know some of poor old parson's sarmons. We sang the old psalms and hymns then, and Miss Jane used to practise twice a week with us boys at the little organ that old Davy, Franklin's gardener, used to turn the handle on. There was no choral sarvice then, and white gowns for the children. Ah, a clerk's place was worth having then. It wasn't many on 'em as could roll out _Amen_ like poor old Sammy Warmoth." "Joe Biggins," said the wheelwright, checking the flood of recollections--"doctor says Rev Mallow won't--won't--"