“Good evening, brethren,” he said. “The doctor told me that Nicholas Parks had been called to his account, so I came up to give him Christian burial.” “He died sudden, I guess,” replied one of the men. “It's God's way,” said the preacher. “The sinner is taken in the twinkling of an eye.” He drew off his cotton gloves and put them into his pocket. “Have any preparations been made for the burial?” he inquired. “The grave's dug,” said one of the men. “How about the coffin?” “We don't know about the coffin, we haven't been to the house.” “Is any one up at the house?” “We think the new School-teacher's up there. Little David went up to see, but he ain't come back.” “I didn't know the new School-teacher had come.” “He got here last night,” said the miller. “What kind of a man is he?” “He's a man that the children will like,” replied the woman. “Children,” said the preacher, “are not competent judges of men. Let us go up to the house. Is he elderly?” “I thought he was mighty young,” said the woman. “The young,” replied the preacher, “are rarely impressed with the awful solemnity of God's commandments.” “I think he's a good man,” said the woman. “Martha loved him right away, an' I'd trust him with anything I've got.” “Our Mother Eve trusted the serpent,” replied the preacher. And he extended his right arm, the fingers stiffly together, the thumb up. “The youth of the community ought to be brought up in the fear of God.” During the conversation, the miller's little daughter had gone on to the house. Something vague, intangible, undefined had stopped the men in the road below the house, and made them await the arrival of the preacher. But that thing had not affected the children. The little boy David and this child had gone on without the least hesitation. The preacher threw down one of the pole bars and went through into the meadow. The others followed him along the path to the house. As they drew near they heard the voices of the children. At the threshold the preacher stopped, and those behind him crowded up to look into the house. The door was open. The sun entering, filled the room with light. On chairs in the middle of this room stood a coffin made of the odds and ends of rough hoards, but marvelously joined. Beside it stood the School-teacher, and at either end was one of the children; the three of them were fitting a board on the coffin for a and, and they were talking together. When the minister entered, the Schoolteacher removed the board and laid it down on the floor, and the two children, as by some instinct, drew near to the man, on either side, and took hold of his hands. They became instantly silent. The minister went up to the chair, looked a moment into the coffin and took his place at the head of it. The others followed.