“I’m sure it’s quite fair, Agnes. Is Joe very sorry that he married you, now?” She hung her head, and blushed so deeply through all her sallow complexion, that I was sorry I had teased her, and said so. This brought a reply. “I don’t think he be, sir. I do think he gets better. He’s been working very hard the last week or two, and he says it agrees with him.” “And how are you?” “Quite well, thank you, sir.” I had never seen her look half so well. Life was evidently a very different thing to both of them now. I left her, and took my way to the church. When I reached the churchyard, there, in the middle of the rain and the gathering darkness, was the old man busy with the duties of his calling. A certain headstone stood right under a drip from the roof of the southern transept; and this drip had caused the mould at the foot of the stone, on the side next the wall, to sink, so that there was a considerable crack between the stone and the soil. The old man had cut some sod from another part of the churchyard, and was now standing, with the rain pouring on him from the roof, beating this sod down in the crack. He was sheltered from the wind by the church, but he was as wet as he could be. I may mention that he never appeared in the least disconcerted when I came upon him in the discharge of his functions: he was so content with his own feeling in the matter, that no difference of opinion could disturb him. “This will never do, Coombes,” I said. “You will get your death of cold. You must be as full of water as a sponge. Old man, there’s rheumatism in the world!” “It be only my work, sir. But I believe I ha’ done now for a night. I think he’ll be a bit more comfortable now. The very wind could get at him through that hole.” “Do go home, then,” I said, “and change your clothes. Is your wife in the church?” “She be, sir. This door, sir--this door,” he added, as he saw me going round to the usual entrance. “You’ll find her in there.” I lifted the great latch and entered. I could not see her at first, for it was much darker inside the church. It felt very quiet in there somehow, although the place was full of the noise of winds and waters. Mrs. Coombes was not sitting on the bell-keys, where I looked for her first, for the wind blew down the tower in many currents and draughts--how it did roar up there--as if the louvres had been a windsail to catch the wind and send it down to ventilate the church!--she was sitting at the foot of the chancel-rail, with her stocking as usual. The sight of her sweet old face, lighted up by a moonlike smile as I drew near her, in the middle of the ancient dusk filled with sounds, but only sounds of tempest, gave me a sense of one dwelling in the secret place of the Most High, such as I shall never forget. It was no time to say much, however. “How long do you mean to stay here, Mrs. Coombes?” I asked. “Not all night?” “No, not all night, surely, sir. But I hadn’t thought o’ going yet for a bit.”