"Mistress Janet’s is black as sloes, an’ she hes a staunch heart of her own to match," broke in Nanny, who rarely stopped to praise. "But then she might be a Wayne, an’ I’ve allus wondered how she came to be born of a Ratcliffe stock. Eh, but I wonder aht yond chap is saying to Witherlee! My man hes getten a closish tongue, Lord be thanked, or he mud easy say summat that wod stick i’ Ratcliffe’s gizzard." The Sexton had been pottering up and down the graveyard all this while. And now he had sat him down on the edge of a grave, and filled his pipe and fallen into one of the musing fits which were the chief joy of his life. He was out of place in the world of living men and women, was Witherlee, and he knew it; but here he was at home, and the folk underground were full in sympathy with the dour, clear-sighted philosophy which pick and spade had taught him. "There’s comfort i’ a bit o’ bacca—though, Lord knows, ’twill be all one, bacca or no bacca, by and by," he muttered, pulling out his tinder-box. "We brought nowt into th’ world, an’ we tak nowt out, as Parson says at buryings—no, not so mich as an old clay pipe to keep us warm under sod." His pipe well going, he let his eyes rove through the thin trail of smoke until they rested on the vault of the Waynes of Marsh. A shadowy smile wrinkled his mouth; he was thinking of what had chanced here not twelve hours agone, and piecing the fight together, stroke by stroke, as he would have it be if it were to be fought out again. "So thou’rt here, Witherlee! Peste, man, thou sittest so grey and still that I mistook thee for one of thy own gravestones," said Ratcliffe’s voice at his elbow. The Sexton came slowly out of his dreams. "Good-day to ye, Maister. Th’ wind blows warm at after last neet’s bluster," he said. "It will blow cold again—after what was done here last night," answered Ratcliffe sourly. "Thou hast heard, I take it, that my brother was done to death here? I am come to bid thee dig a grave for him, the burying will be on Monday, likely." "’Tis an ill-starred day for a burial, but dead men cannot be choosers. Oh, ay, I’ll get th’ grave digged reet enough." "There’ll be more work for thee before long," went on Ratcliffe, angered by the air of quiet aloofness which Witherlee assumed when he had scant liking for a man. "There’s a saying that a Ratcliffe does not love to sleep alone, and we must find him a bedfellow." "Well, there’s room for a two or three—’specially i’ th’ Ratcliffe slice o’ ground," said the Sexton, waving his hand toward the half-dilled space that underlay the Parsonage. "Thy jests are dry, old Witherlee," snapped the other. "Nay, I war none jesting. Cannot ye see that there’s room and to spare? Oh, ay, I’ll be fain to fill up my bit of a garden yonder—and thankee for th’ custom."