“And where were these unfortunate creatures put to?” inquired Derrick after a pause. “They were all buried in the churchyard yonder, sir. Sir Robert Lisgard--but there, I forgot: you may read some of their names--those at least as was identified--upon the tombstones. It was a sad sight them burials. Strangers, and very poor folks mostly, coming from miles and miles away to see their dead, who had but left home a few days before for a New World, indeed, as they call it, but little thinking as it was for _that_. You should hear Uncle Jacob talk of it.” “Ah, sad, indeed,” echoed Derrick, rising from his seat. “I am glad to have met _you_, mate; good-night, and thank you.” “Thank you, sir; I never tasted better baccy.” Derrick waited until his companion had descended to the very bottom of the Cove; waited until he saw the cottage door open and shut--a mere streak of light and shadow--and then followed on his steps; but having reached the foot of the ravine, he took the winding path that led up its opposite side towards the church and Jacob Forest's high-built dwelling. CHAPTER V. THE MEMORIAL WINDOW. |NOTWITHSTANDING that Coveton Church is “gritty,” like all the rest of the architecture in that locality, and presents the appearance of an ecclesiastical edifice swathed in sand-paper, it is by no means unpicturesque; while the spot on which it stands can compare for beauty with any God'sacre in England. It is more than a hundred feet above the level of the village, and commands a glorious view, which would be a complete panorama, but for the steep wooded hill, which protects it from the bitter north, and assists the genial climate to make a flower-garden of the churchyard three parts of the year round. Even thus early in the summer, had Ralph's visit been paid in the daytime instead of the night, he would have seen it bright with bud and blossom, for almost every grave was itself a little parterre, tended by pious hands. Poor wasted human forms, but not seldom dearer to others than the handsomest and healthiest, often come to Coveton to prolong for a little their painful lives, until they flit away like shadows; indeed, if you read the grave-stones, you will find three out of four are records of departed Youth. The newly Married pass their honeymoons at the pleasant little village, and those who have been sentenced to death by the Doctors come also thither, and a strange and touching contrast they afford.