"’Tis a drear day’s work, Witherlee," said the Parson, lifting his eyes at last. "A drear day’s wark, Parson—but sweet as honey while it lasted. Praise God there’s nobbut one Wayne killed—one o’ th’ Hill House lot, he is, an’ he ligs up by th’ wicket yonder. An’ praise God, says I, ’at there’ll three Ratcliffes niver trouble Marshcotes wi’ their tricks again; one of ’em is stretched at th’ wall-side there, an’ another under th’ Parsonage.—I see’d th’ stroke that cleft yond last—cleft him fair like a hazel-nut." The Parson eyed his Sexton gravely, and would have spoken; but Witherlee’s soft-moving voice crossed his own before the first word was well out. "Now, Parson, I can see by th’ face on ye that ye wod liefer I read a sarmon nor a frolic i’ all this; an’ so I do, when I can frame to gi’e my mind to ’t. ’Tis noan th’ bloodshed itseln ’at pleasures me—for I’m soft wi’ pity when I come to see ’em lying cold—but th’ blows, Parson! Th’ swing o’ well-fed thews, an’ th’ dancing flicker o’ live steel, an’ a man standing up to death wi’ belly-deep laughter i’ his throat! I may be wrang, mind ye—there’s few as isn’t time an’ time—but I wod gi’e five years o’ life to watch this moil all ower again, and to see Shameless Wayne show how the old breed strikes." "Vanity, Witherlee—all is vanity, save prayer, and chastening of man’s pride. Hast pity for the dead, thou say’st? Ay, but that should sober thy zest in what went before." "Yet th’ pity is war nor t’ other, being foolish altogether," said the Sexton reflectively, "for I allus did say ’at there’s greener grass, an’ sweeter, grows ower a dead man’s grave nor under his living feet. But there’s a winding-sheet for all, so we munnot complain." "Soften thy heart, for God’s mercy’s sake, before the end overtakes thee. Art hard, Witherlee, hard, with never a hope beyond the grave." "We’ll noan’ fratch, Parson," said Witherlee slowly. "Ye’ve learned all fro’ Heaven and Hell; but I’ve learned fro’ gooid, strong soil—what me an’ ye came fro’, an’ what we mun go back to i’ th’ end. It sticks, does kneaded earth, an’ when ye’ve lived husband-to-wife wi’ ’t i’ a manner o’ speaking, ye get to look no forrarder." The Parson sighed. It was but an old argument with a drear new setting. "Earth holds earth—but it cannot hold the soul," he said, wearily a little, and as if foredoomed to plead in vain. "That’s as may be," said Witherlee, in the low, even voice that had likewise been taught him by his trade. "I niver hed no dealings, so to say, wi’ th’ soul; I’ve knawn buryings but no risings—save when th’ ghosties stir up an’ down among th’ graves, as they will do time an’ time. An’ th’ ghosts ’ud seem to hev won no further off nor Marshcotes kirkyard." "Art full of vain superstition, Witherlee. The soul thou doubtest; but ghosts, in which no God-fearing man need believe——"