"I am going," said Mrs. Coney, "and I half wish I had never come in. Broom, I am sorry to have hindered you. You are busy." "I am making my raised pies," said Broom. "It's the second batch. What with master's coming marriage, and one thing and another, I did not get 'em done before the new year. Your Molly says hers beat mine, Master Ludlow; but I don't believe it." "She does, does she! It's just like her boasting. Mrs. Todhetley often makes the pork-pies herself." "Johnny," said Mrs. Coney, as we went along, she in deep thought: "that poor Lucy Bird might keep a stick for cutting notches--as it is said some prisoners used to do, to mark their days--and notch off her dreadful cares, that are ever recurring. Why, Johnny, what's that crowd for?" The church stood on the right between Timberdale Court and the village. A regular mob of children seemed to be pressing round the gate of the churchyard. I went to look, leaving Mrs. Coney standing. Charles Ashton was coming out of the church in his surplice, and the clerk, old Sam Mullet, behind him, carrying a little coffin. The grave was in the corner of the burial-ground, and Mr. Ashton went straight to it, and continued the service begun in the church. If it had been a lord's child, he could not have done it all in better order. But there were no mourners, unless old Mullet could be called one. He put the coffin on the grass, and was in a frightful temper. I took off my hat and waited: it would have looked so to run away when there was no one else to stand there: and Mrs. Coney's face, as cross as old Mullet's, might be seen peering through the hedge. "It's come to a pretty pass, when tramps' brats have to be put in the ground like honest folks's," grunted Sam, when Mr. Ashton had walked away, and he began to fling in the spadefuls of earth. "What must he needs go and baptize that there young atom for?--he ain't our parson; he don't belong to we in this parish. I dun-no what the world be a-coming to." Mr. Ashton was talking to Mrs. Coney when I got up. I told him what a way Sam Mullet was in. "Yes," said he. "I believe what I did has not given satisfaction in all quarters; so I waited to take the service myself, and save other people trouble." "In what name is the dead child registered, Charles?" asked Mrs. Coney. "Lucy Bird." "Lucy Bird! _Bird?_" "It was the name the mother gave me in one of her lucid intervals," answered the clergyman, shortly. He hastened away, saying he must catch a train, for that his own parish was wanting him; but I fancied he did not care to be further questioned. Mrs. Coney stood still to stare after him, and would have liked to ask him how much and how little he knew. Lucy Bird! It did sound strange to hear the name--as if it were the real Lucy Bird we knew so well. I said so to Mrs. Coney. "The impudence of the woman must pass all belief," she muttered to herself. "Let us get on, Johnny? I would rather run a mile any other way than go to see her."