"'Twas out there,"--and Twitt pointed with one hand to the shining expanse of the ocean--"The gypsies put 'im an' is Kiddie in a basket coffin which they made theirselves, an' covered it all over wi' garlands o' flowers an' green boughs, an' then fastened four great lumps o' lead to the four corners, an' rowed it out in a boat to about four or five miles from the shore, right near to the place where the moon at full 'makes a hole in the middle o' the sea,' as the children sez, and there they dropped it into the water. Then they sang a funeral song--an' by the Lord!--the sound o' that song crept into yer veins an' made yer blood run cold!--'twas enough to break a man's 'art, let alone a woman's, to 'ear them gypsy voices all in a chorus wailin' a farewell to the man an' the child in the sea,--an' the song floated up an' about, 'ere an' there an' everywhere, all over the land from Cleeve Abbey onnards, an' at Blue Anchor, so they sez, it was so awsome an' eerie that the people got out o' their beds, shiverin', an' opened their windows to listen, an' when they listened they all fell a cryin' like children. An' it's no wonder the inn where poor Tom did his bad deed and died his bad death, is shut up for good, an' the people as kept it gone away--no one couldn't stay there arter that. Ay, ay!" and Twitt sighed profoundly--"Poor wild ne'er-do-weel Tom! He lies deep down enough now with the waves flowin' over 'im an' 'is little 'Kiddie' clasped tight in 'is arms. For they never separated 'em,--death 'ad locked 'em up too fast together for that. An' they're sleepin' peaceful,--an' there they'll sleep till--till 'the sea gives up its dead.'" Helmsley could not speak,--he was too deeply moved. The sound of the in-coming tide grew fuller and more sonorous, and Twitt presently turned to look critically at the heaving waters. "There's a cry in the sea to-day,"--he said,--"M'appen it'll be rough to-night." They were silent again, till presently Helmsley roused himself from the brief melancholy abstraction into which he had been plunged by the story of Tom o' the Gleam's funeral. "I think I'll go down on the shore for a bit,"--he said; "I like to get as close to the waves as I can when they're rolling in." "Well, don't get too close,"--said Twitt, kindly--"We'll be havin' ye washed away if ye don't take care! There's onny an hour to tea-time, an' Mary Deane's a punctooal 'ooman!"