It was the little christening robe, that was to have been worn next day; and drip after drip, to form dark spots in the moonlight, the hot, burning tears of anguish fell from the mother's eyes as they slowly bore the little burden out into the garden, down the neat path, and away to the corner where the willow laved its long green branches in the brook-- a veritable stream of silver now, dancing and sparkling in the beams of the broad-faced moon. Where Tom Morrison stopped at last, beneath the willow, was his evening's work--a small, dark trench, lying amidst the mellow, sweet-scented, newly-turned earth; and here, upon his own land, he was about to lay the dead--to be sown in corruption, to be raised in incorruption--in soil unconsecrated, and without the rites of the Church. Unconsecrated? No, it was consecrated by the loving tears that bedewed the earth, and fell upon the little white coffin as it was tenderly lowered to its resting-place; and, failing rites, the stricken pair kneeled on either side in the soft mould, and, joining hands, prayed that they might meet again. Tom's words were few; but simple and earnest was his prayer as ever fell from the lips of man; while, kneeling at the foot of the grave was poor Budge, who only burst forth with a sob when all was over. For the mother stayed while the earth was reverently drawn over the cold bed, till a little hillock of black soil lay silvered by the dropping moonbeams falling through the willow boughs. It was poor Budge who laid her offering--a bunch of daisies--upon the little grave, while Tom led his trembling wife back to their desolate home. Joe Biggins, true to his word, called at the wheelwright's next morning on his way to church, and on coming within sight of the house he took off his hat to indulge in a good scratch, for he was puzzled on seeing that the blinds were all drawn up. Replacing his hat very carefully, he softly entered upon tip-toes, and walked up the little path, where he was met by Tom Morrison, looking pale and worn, but with a restful look in his face that had not been there for days. They shook hands warmly, for Joe Biggins had resolved never to think about that coffin Tom Morrison had made again, and just then fresh steps were heard, and they saw old Mr Vinnicombe coming up. "I thought I'd call, Morrison," he said, "and ask you to let me be the bearer of a message to the rectory. Let's make a last appeal to the bigot." "Hush, sir!--don't call him names," said Tom. "He thought he was right, no doubt." "Then you've heard from him." "No, sir, no," said Tom, sadly; "but I forgive him all the same, though I could never bear to go and hear him more." The doctor and Biggins looked at each other, and the latter shook his head till his white cravat crackled, for he was got up ready for his verger's gown. "Will you walk down the garden, doctor?" said the wheelwright, quietly.