“In my day folks made their own weddin’-cakes. And dedn’t want no funeral coaches neither. The church-path or the farm-wagon——” “Come along!” She took his arm. “There’s no funeral coaches here.” A whining and scratching at the door made a welcome diversion. Nip, back from the hunting-path, sneaked in, aware of sin, with ears flat, tail abased, and sidelong squint. “Ain’t seen that for days,” said the Gaffer. “Where’s that been?” “I don’t know,” she lied, glad of Nip’s guilty air, for to explain would reveal the coach. “On the razzle-dazzle, I suppose.” After supper, she remembered a box must be put in the ante-room that had been left with her to be called for. It was stupid not to have brought it in at once, ere the cart had been put in its shed—as stupid as her pot-swapping. In a sudden fear that if unremoved to-night she would carry it off to Farmer Gale’s wedding just when the owner would be coming for it, she asked her grandfather to lend a hand with it. It was an unfortunate request, for as the still sinewy veteran was dragging his end over the sill, he said weirdly: “There ain’t no man in Bradmarsh more lugsome’n that. Who wants your new-fangled coach?” “What coach?” murmured Jinny, half puzzled, half apprehensive. “The funeral coach.” He stood still. “Where else ’ould a coffin goo?” “Rubbish, Gran’fer. There’s no funeral coach.” Her little silvery voice rang out. “_Heave away, my Johnny._ Come along, Gran’fer, I’ve got to rub down Methusalem—you’ll be too tired now.” “No funeral coach?” he repeated slowly, loosing the box. “You’ve been dreaming, Gran’fer.” “But the two black horses——” Her heart beat like a criminal’s on the eve of detection. “Nightmares!” she laughed. “What did I say?” “But he said——!” “Who said?” “Annie’s buoy-oy.” “Annie’s——?” “’Lijah, he calls hisself.” “Elijah? And did he go up in a chariot of fire with the horses?” And more than ever incensed against Mr. Skindle, she hastily started her carrier’s chanty: “_There is Hey, there is Ree._” Automatically his sepulchral bass exuded, and his arms reclasped the box: “_There is Hoo, there is Gee——_” Then together their antithetical voices rolled out joyously as the box moved forward: “_But the bob-tailed mare bears the bells away._” Inwardly she was thinking that a “funeral coach” was just what it was. Did its bells not ring the knell of all the peaceful past? Yes, it was the hearse of her past, of her youth. And somehow—somehow—she must readjust herself to the strange raw cruelty of the present. V She resettled him before his Bible. But when she returned from the stable, he had wandered again to the chest of drawers, and was now holding up the pot. “And ye told me Oi was dreamin’!” he said angrily. “Why did ye lie to me?” “What do you mean, Gran’fer?” she said, flushing. “How did that pot come here?” “I brought it, of course.”