The spectacle of carrying the Good Lady up to the brow was more terrifying to the people of Bleaburn than any of the funerals they had seen creeping along by the same path,—more even than the passage of the laden cart, with the pall over it, on the morning of the opening of the new burying-grounds. The people of Bleaburn, extremely ignorant, were naturally extremely superstitious. It was not only the very ignorant who were superstitious. The fever itself was never supposed to be more catching than a mood of superstition; and so it now appeared in Bleaburn. For many weeks past the Good Lady had been regarded as a sort of talisman in the people’s possession. She breathed out such cheerfulness wherever she turned her face, that it seemed as if the place could not go quite to destruction while she was in it. Some who would not have admitted to themselves that they held such an impression were yet infected with the common dismay, as well as with the sorrow of parting with her. If Mary had had the least idea of the probable effect of her departure, she would have been less admired by the Kirbys for her docility,—for she would certainly have insisted on staying where she was. “I declare I don’t know what to do,” the doctor confessed in confidence to the clergyman. “Every patient I have is drooping, and the people in the street look like creatures under doom. The comet was bad enough; and, before we have well done with it, here is a panic which is ten times worse.” “I tried to lend a hand to help you against the comet,” replied Mr. Kirby. “I think I may be of some use again now. Shall I tell them it is a clear case of idolatry?” “Why, it is in fact so, Mr. Kirby; but yet, I shrink from appearing to cast the slightest disrespect on her.” “Of course; of course. The thing I want to show them is what she would think,—how shocked she would be if she knew the state of mind she left behind.” “Ah! if you can do that!” “I will see about it. Now tell me how we are going on.” The Doctor replied by a look, which made Mr. Kirby shake his head. Neither of them liked to say in words how awful was the state of things. “It is such weather you see,” said the Doctor. “Damp and disagreeable as it is, this December is as warm as September.” “Five-and-twenty sorts of flowers out in my garden,” observed Mr. Kirby. “I set the boys to count them yesterday. We shall have as many as that on Christmas-day. A thing unheard of!” “There will be no Christmas kept this year, surely,” said the Doctor. “I don’t know that. My wife and I were talking it over yesterday. We think * * Well, my boy,” to a little fellow who stood pulling his forelock, “what have you to say to me? I am wanted at home, am I? Is Mrs. Kirby there?”