This moralizing on funerals by the sexton's wife was a new phase of life to Mr. Penrose. He had never before met with anyone who took an interest in the matter. It was true that in the city from which he had lately come the question of wicker coffins and of cremation was loudly discussed; but the choice between a hearse and 'carrying' as a means of transit to the tomb never dawned on him as being anything else than a question of utility--the speediest and easiest means of transit. After the deliverance of her mind on the snobbishness of poor people in the use of the hearse, she continued: 'It'll noan be so long afore they've to carry me, Mr. Penrose. I towd Joseph yesterneet that his turn 'ud soon come to dig my grave wi' th' rest; and he said, "When thy turn comes, lass, I'll do by thee as thou'd be done by."' 'And how would you be done by?' asked the minister. 'Well, it's i' this way, Mr. Penrose,' said the old woman. 'I want a dry grave, wi' a posy growin' on th' top. I somehaa like posies on graves; they mak' me think of th' owd hymn, '"There everlastin' spring abides, And never-witherin' flaars."' Now, Mr. Penrose was one of the so-called theological young bloods, and held little sympathy with Dr. Watts's sensuous views of a future state. His common-sense, however, and his discretion came to his rescue, and delivered him from a strong temptation to blast the old woman's paradise with a breath of negative criticism. 'There's a grave daan at th' bottom o' th' yard, Mr. Penrose, where th' sunleet rests from morn till neet, an' I've axed Joseph to lay me there, for it's welly awlus warm, and flaars grow from Kesmas to Kesmas. Th' doctor's little lass lies there. Yo never knowd her, Mr. Penrose. Hoo were some pratty, bless her! Did yo' ever read what her faither put o'er th' top o' th' stone?' Mr. Penrose confessed he was in ignorance of the epitaph over the grave of the doctor's child. As yet the history and romance of the graveyard were unknown to him. 'Well, it's this,' continued his informant: '"Such lilies th' angels gather for th' garden of God." They'll never write that o'er me, Mr. Penrose. I'm nobbud a withered stalk. Hoo were eight--I'm eighty. But for all that I should like a flaar on mi grave, and Joseph says I shall hev one.' * * * * *