It must here be observed that Joshua had remarkably shaggy eyebrows, overhanging his quick eyes like pent-houses, and that it was the wont of the schoolboys and others to annoy him by drawing their fingers significantly over their own. A young sweep sat upon the church wall to witness the funeral, and—young imp of Satan that he was!—he could not forbear drawing a thumb and forefinger over each brow, full in Joshua’s sight, just as he reached the passage—“I heard a voice from heaven saying——” The shaggy eyebrows contracted; he roared out— “Knock that little black rascal off the church wall!” The mischievous little blackamoor was off, with a beadle after him; and the eccentric chaplain, whom no sense of irreverence seemed to strike, concluded the ceremony with no further interruption. At its close, Mr. Aspinall and another mourner took the clergyman to task for his disrespect to the remains of the deceased Mrs. Aspinall, whose obsequies had been so irregularly performed. They said nothing of disrespect to the Divinity profaned; their own feelings and importance had been outraged, and they forgot all else even by the dust and ashes in the gaping grave; and little Laurence, cloaked and hooded, forgot his grief in watching the chase after the sweep. “How dare you, sir, give way to these indecencies at the funeral of my wife? It has been most indecorous and insulting, both to the dead and her afflicted relatives.” “She’s had Christian burial, hasn’t she?” gruffly interrogated Joshua. “Hardly,” was the hesitating answer. “She’s been laid in consecrated ground, and I’ve read the burial service over her; what more would you have? Some folk are never satisfied.” Emptying half his horehound drops into the hand of Master Laurence, Joshua turned on his heel, went to the chapter-house to disrobe, and then back over the wall to Mrs. Clowes. “I say, dame, you were not at church on Sunday.” “No, Parson Brookes; I was in Liverpool.” “Oh!” grunted he, “in Liverpool. Sugar-buying, I suppose?” “Yea; an’ a fine joke I’ve had.” Joshua pricked up his ears: he did not object to a little fun. “You mun know I thought I’d give Branker, the new sugar-brokers, a trial, an’ I went there and asked to see samples; but the young whipper-snapper of a salesman looked at me from top to toe, an’ I suppose, reckoned up the value of my old black bonnet, my kerchief an’ mutch, an’ my old stuff dress, and fancied my pocket must match my gown, for he was barely civil, and didn’t seem to care for the trouble o’ showin’ th’ samples. So I bade my young man good day, and said I’d call again.” “And didn’t, I suppose. Just like a woman,” put in Joshua.