‘Well, Miss Margit, I’d getten th’ grave above half-finished, when I yeard th’ brass bands comin’ along to th’ Plough Inn, and it were th’ middle o’ th’ arternoon, and I were summan (some and) dry, and I were vary anxious for to hear who’d won, yo’ know, so I flings down my spade, and I went off to th’ Plough, and theer I found ’em all—every man on ’em. And we geet to talkin’, and first one offert me a drop, and then another, till I geet to’ much—I’m free to confess it. I remembered o’ of a suddent as th’ grave were to be ready again th’ mornin’, and I jumped up, and ran to th’ churchyard, and set to work to dig wi’ a will. And whether it was th’ heat—it _were_ gradely hot—or whether I were fuddled, I know nowt about it, but I turned dizzy all of a moment, and I tummled down, and fell fast asleep. Th’ graves were o’er yonder, at th’ fur end o’ th’ yard, and mappen that were why no one seed me, and wakkened me oop, but when I did awake, it were well-nigh dark, and I couldna tell for t’ life of me, where I were. So I sets oop and looks around, and there in the far distance I yeard th’ sound of a trumpet. My heart louped to my mouth, and I thowt, “Robert Stott, it’s last trump; up wi’ thee!” and I ups and clambers out, and stands still. Ne’er a soul could I see, and aw’ were as still as death. Findin’ mysel’ alone, I took courage, for I knew as the more part should be o’ th’ wrong side i’ th’ day o’ judgment—our parson’s olez said so, and I’ve a feelin’ as he’s reet. Then again I yeard th’ trumpet-blast, and I looked around again. “What, no more righteous?” I said to mysel’. “Eh, but it’s a poor show for Wellfield.”’ ‘_Robert!_’ was all that Miss Shuttleworth could ejaculate, horror-struck. ‘Yes, Miss Margit?’ ‘What you say proves you to be in a very unsatisfactory frame of mind as regards religion.’ ‘Well, ma’am, I’ve olez agreed gradely well with th’ owd vicar. It’s a grand thing to be _reet_, Miss Margit—a grand thing it is—and _we’re_ reet. I see my son-in-law a-calling to me, so I’ll say good-mornin’.’ With which, before she could stop him, Robert Stott had made good his escape. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll allow us to go to the Abbey, cousin,’ observed Mr. Bolton, shaking in a volley of silent chuckles. ‘I am astonished at you, cousin,’ was all the answer he received, as Miss Margaret, with her head in the air, floated towards the wicket leading to the Abbey. But her head suddenly went down again as she recalled her niece’s words yesterday, ‘Don’t you see when you are being laughed at, aunt?’ ‘Is it possible that Stott was laughing at me? Surely he would not have such insolence!’ Pondering upon this tremendous topic, she had eyes and ears for nothing else until Mr. Bolton observed: ‘You’ll walk into the river, cousin, directly. Would you like to go in, or shall we walk about till the young ones come back?’