It was a wild and stormy day, such as not unfrequently breaks up the fine weather at the commencement of August; the curate had not presented himself the whole morning at the Vicarage, and the family supposed him confined to his house by the tempest. The church bell began to toll, and its long, mournful vibrations seemed to come sadly and awfully, with a warning sound, across the furious blast; sometimes swelling loud in a transient lull, sometimes almost swept away by the violence of the roaring gale. “That is old Martha Blake’s funeral,” observed Hilary; “what a day for the poor people.” “Yes; and Mr. Ufford, too,” observed Gwyneth. The bell tolled on, and by-and-by Nest, who was watching from the window, remarked that the party had just appeared. Slowly, and with difficulty, the black group made their way across the green, the wind violently opposing their progress, and threatening at every moment to overpower their feeble and tottering steps. Gwyneth’s eyes were fixed on the procession as it wound its way along; she expected to see Mr. Ufford issue from the church to meet the mourners; but they paused at the Lychgate, set down the corpse, and sheltered themselves as well as they could beneath the walls. It was evident the clergyman had not yet arrived. Five minutes passed; ten, a quarter of an hour; still the bell tolled on; and still the mourners stood huddled together by the gate of the dead. “How wrong to keep those poor people waiting there,” said Hilary, a little indignantly. “I dare say there is some mistake about time,” replied Gwyneth; “and I am sure they have often kept Mr. Ufford for an hour or more.” Still time went on; at length, after a long hour, a messenger came to the Vicarage, to ask what should be done; they had sent to Primrose Bank, but the clergyman was out, and had left word that he need not be expected back. “Then I must go and bury my old parishioner,” said the vicar, rising up. “Hilary, my hat and coat, please, love; old Martin will guide me down to the church; so do not disturb yourself.” Hilary was thunderstruck; for her father to go out in such weather might be fatal; he had not been so well as usual for some days. She knew not what to do; ah, could she but have exposed herself for him! Vain wish; she watched him preparing with a sad presentiment, then resolutely threw on her own black cloak, and determined to accompany him. The storm which he must encounter, she too would brave; perhaps she might assist, or shelter him from its fury.