‘No. Faithfully.’
A look of thankfulness and triumph lights the worn
old face.
The eyes, which have been darkly fixed upon the sky,
turn with meaning in them towards the compassionate
face from which the tears are dropping, and a smile
is on the aged lips as they ask:
‘What is your name, my dear?’
‘My name is Lizzie Hexam.’
‘I must be sore disfigured. Are you afraid
to kiss me?’
The answer is, the ready pressure of her lips upon
the cold but smiling mouth.
‘Bless ye! Now lift me, my love.’
Lizzie Hexam very softly raised the weather-stained
grey head, and lifted her as high as Heaven.
SOMEBODY BECOMES THE SUBJECT OF A PREDICTION
’"We give thee hearty thanks for that it hath
pleased thee to deliver this our sister out of the
miseries of this sinful world."’ So read the
Reverend Frank Milvey in a not untroubled voice, for
his heart misgave him that all was not quite right
between us and our sister—or say our sister
in Law—Poor Law—and that we sometimes
read these words in an awful manner, over our Sister
and our Brother too.
And Sloppy—on whom the brave deceased had
never turned her back until she ran away from him,
knowing that otherwise he would not be separated from
her—Sloppy could not in his conscience as
yet find the hearty thanks required of it. Selfish
in Sloppy, and yet excusable, it may be humbly hoped,
because our sister had been more than his mother.
The words were read above the ashes of Betty Higden,
in a corner of a churchyard near the river; in a churchyard
so obscure that there was nothing in it but grass-mounds,
not so much as one single tombstone. It might
not be to do an unreasonably great deal for the diggers
and hewers, in a registering age, if we ticketed their
graves at the common charge; so that a new generation
might know which was which: so that the soldier,
sailor, emigrant, coming home, should be able to identify
the resting-place of father, mother, playmate, or
betrothed. For, we turn up our eyes and say that
we are all alike in death, and we might turn them
down and work the saying out in this world, so far.
It would be sentimental, perhaps? But how say
ye, my lords and gentleman and honourable boards,
shall we not find good standing-room left for a little
sentiment, if we look into our crowds?
Near unto the Reverend Frank Milvey as he read, stood
his little wife, John Rokesmith the Secretary, and
Bella Wilfer. These, over and above Sloppy, were
the mourners at the lowly grave. Not a penny had
been added to the money sewn in her dress: what
her honest spirit had so long projected, was fulfilled.
‘I’ve took it in my head,’ said
Sloppy, laying it, inconsolable, against the church
door, when all was done: I’ve took it in
my wretched head that I might have sometimes turned
a little harder for her, and it cuts me deep to think
so now.’
