The ancient custom of burying the dead in the evening, which still lingers in some parts of the country, prevailed in this village. I left Fairmount, in company with Mr. Stevens and Mr. Lewellin, about five o'clock, the eighth day after her decease; and we were both astonished and pleased by seeing Farmer Pickford on the road before us. When we came up with him I saluted him. "What, Farmer, are you going to the funeral?" "Yes, Sir; my mistress wished it, as she mainly liked Mrs. Allen; and I felt a bit inclined to pay a little respect to her memory, because I once made sport of her religion; but I am now satisfied that it is of the right sort." "It is so. It gives comfort on a bed of sickness and pain, and it fits a person to die well--to die with a full expectation of going to heaven; that is, of going home." "It's a main good thing, and no mistake, when we are turned out of one home, to have another to go to." "And that _other_ home _heaven_, which I hope, Farmer, will be your home at last and for ever." "The Lord grant that it may be so. I often pray a bit about it; but my prayers are but poor prayers, worse luck. I can't pray like you." "You can pray, like the publican, 'God be merciful to me a sinner.'" "Ay, that's the prayer for me. I can pray that prayer, and feel it too." Almost immediately after we had reached the cottage, a neat oak coffin, bearing the name and age of the deceased, was brought out, and placed on two stools in the centre walk of the garden. A band of singers from the church choir took the lead in the procession, then the bearers of the coffin, two and two, a lad walking on each side with a stool, to afford an occasional resting; then the chief mourners--the widowed husband and his little boy; some relatives, and a few poor friends, walked behind; and many of the villagers attended as spectators. As the bier entered the vale that divides the two parishes, the singers sang the following hymn:-- "Hear what the voice from heaven proclaims For all the pious dead; Sweet is the savour of their names, And soft their sleeping bed. "They die in Jesus, and are bless'd; How still their slumbers are! From suff'rings and from sins releas'd, And freed from ev'ry snare. "Far from this world of toil and strife, They're present with the Lord; The labours of their mortal life End in a large reward." The effect was solemn and impressive. As soon as the hymn was sung, the bier stood still, and the bearers rested; when the thrush and the yellow hammer, roused by the music, poured forth their melodious notes, as though anxious to prolong the song. The number of spectators increased as we advanced; all were serious, some wept; and when we turned into the lane which led up to the church, another hymn was sung, in accents more bold, but equally melodious with the former:--