He flung off the arresting hands and made a further effort to see, but those busy with the ropes were using greater dispatch and others were thrusting themselves between the graveside and the man. His strength not being as the strength of ten he was forced to desist. Panting and wild-eyed, he stood debating with himself whether he would not make one more effort when Mrs. Tom, calling to him from behind, caught his attention. "Come now," she said, thinking he must have been moved to this exhibition of feeling by a late remorse. "S’bina’s gone and all the cryin’ and grievin’ in the world’ll never get ’er back." "S’bina?" he echoed and the eagerness faded from his face, leaving it curiously grey. "I wanted to see——" He had turned his back on the grave and she noticed that his manner was preoccupied. "I wanted to make sure. Was..." he scanned her face with eyes which, as she said afterwards, should have warned her, "was the nails all drived in?" "The nails?" repeated Mrs. Tom, wondering what he meant but anxious to humour him. "What be tellin’ about? Of course they was drived in?" Did he think Sabina had not been properly screwed down? Drawing her out of the wondering group he bent to her ear. "They never was all drived in before," he confided and looked at her inquiringly. He had failed to see but she, yes, she might have been more fortunate. "Well, they are now, I knaw." She spoke so confidently that he was convinced. "’Tis a good job then." "Iss." "If they’m drived in to the last one I shall never ’ear that ’ammerin’ again." "No," she said, "of course you won’t." He gave her a sidelong considering glance. "Did you ’ear it?" She was still thinking of the screws. "No," she said with a shiver of distress. "I wasn’t near enough. I—I was in the Big Parlour. But come on now, ’tis time for us to be goin’ ’ome. They’re fullin’ in the grave." He turned for a last longing look. "I should like to ’av seen for myself," he said grudgingly. He had forgotten why he was in the churchyard by an open grave, forgotten who lay in its depths, forgotten everything but the question as to whether the curving rows of cut clasps were complete to the last nail. The stones and clods were being shovelled on to the coffin, obliterating for ever the trifling handiwork of man, surrendering what could not be withheld. With a sigh of dissatisfaction, Leadville turned and, walking out of the churchyard, took the homeward road. *CHAPTER XXIII* On the opposite side of the road through Church Town was a little tavern, the only one in the parish at which spirits could be obtained. By this, drawn up and waiting, were a number of conveyances and, among them, the Wastralls cart. ’Uncle George,’ more familiar than Byron with the routine of a funeral, had driven to meet him. The farmer, striding by, would have passed unseeing, but the old man stepped into the road. "I be come for ’ee, maister."