an' misbestowed me parush church? For I won't believe," he said, "that
it's any worse than carelussness--at laste, not yet-a-bit."

Some remembered the church, and some did not: but the faces of all
were clear of guilt. They trooped out on the sands to search.

Now, the sands by Perranzabuloe are for ever shifting and driving
before the northerly and nor'-westerly gales; and in time had heaped
themselves up and covered the building out of sight. To guess this
took the saint less time than you can wink your eye in; but the bother
was that no one remembered exactly where the church, had stood, and as
there were two score at least of tall mounds along the shore, and all
of pretty equal height, there was no knowing where to dig. To uncover
them all was a job to last till doomsday.

"Blur-an'-agurs, but it's ruined I am!" cried St. Piran. "An' the
Visitashun no further away than to-morra at tin a.m.!" He wrung his
hands, then caught up a spade, and began digging like a madman.

They searched all day, and with lanterns all the night through: they
searched from Ligger Point to Porth Towan: but came on never a sign of
the missing church.

"If it only had a spire," one said, "there'd be some chance." But as
far as could be recollected, the building had a dumpy tower.

"Once caught, twice shy," said another; "let us find it this once, an'
next time we'll have landmarks to dig it out by."

It was at sunrise that St. Piran, worn-out and heart-sick, let fall
his spade and spoke from one of the tall mounds, where he had been
digging for an hour.

"My children," he began, and the men uncovered their heads, "my
children, we are going to be disgraced this day, and the best we can
do is to pray that we may take it like men. Let us pray."

He knelt down on the great sand-hill, and the men and women around
dropped on their knees also. And then St. Piran put up the prayer that
has made his name famous all the world over.

_THE PRAYER OF ST. PIRAN.

Harr us, O Lord, and be debonair: for ours is a particular case. We
are not like the men of St. Neot or the men of St. Udy, who are for
ever importuning Thee upon the least occasion, praying at all hours
and every day of the week. Thou knowest it is only with extreme
cause that we bring ourselves to trouble Thee. Therefore regard our
moderation in time past, and be instant to help us now. Amen_.

There was silence for a full minute as he ceased; and then the
kneeling parishioners lifted their eyes towards the top of the mound.

St. Piran was nowhere to be seen!

They stared into each other's faces. For a while not a sound was
uttered. Then a woman began to sob--

"We've lost 'en! We've lost 'en!"

"Like Enoch, he's been taken!"

"Taken up in a chariot an' horses o' fire. Did any see 'en go?"

"An' what'll we do without 'en? Holy St. Piran, come back to us!"

"Hullo! hush a bit an' hearken!" cried Andrew Penhaligon, lifting a
hand.

They were silent, and listening as he commanded, heard a muffled voice
and a faint, calling as it were from the bowels of the earth.

"Fetch a ladder!" it said: "fetch a ladder! It's meself that's found
ut, glory be to God! Holy queen av heaven! but me mouth is full av
sand, an' it's burstin' I'll be if ye don't fetch a ladder quick!"

They brought a ladder and set it against the mound. Three of the men
climbed up. At the top they found a big round hole, from the lip of
which they scraped the sand away, discovering a patch of shingle roof,
through which St. Piran--whose weight had increased of late--had
broken and tumbled heels over head into his own church.

Three hours later there appeared on the eastern sky-line, against the
yellow blaze of the morning, a large cavalcade that slowly pricked its
way over the edge and descended the slopes of Newlyn Downs. It was the
Visitation. In the midst rode St. Petroc, his crozier tucked under his
arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a
saddle of scarlet leather. He gazed across the sands to the sea, and
turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey.

"The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I
see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys."

St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his secret heart he was mightily
pleased.

"Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun.
"They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you."

St. Petroc muttered a threat.

They entered the village street. Not a soul turned out at their
coming. Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of
knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window. In gathering
wrath the visiting saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's
small hut.

Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty. A meagre breakfast of
herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat
ostentatiously beside the platter. The visitors stood nonplussed,
looked at each other, then eyed the landscape. Between barren sea
and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in
sight. St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the
hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with
quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat
of the first saint that dared to smile.

After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and
held up a finger.

"Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea.

"What is it?"

"It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments
with his head on one side, "it sounds to me like a hymn."

"To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is 'Mullyon,'
for a crown." And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant,
beating time with his forefinger--

_When, like a thief, the Midianite
Shall steal upon the camp,
O, let him find our armour bright,
And oil within our lamp!_"

"But where in the world does it come from?" asked St. Neot.

This could not be answered for the moment; but the saints turned their
horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the
sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.

"_It is at no appointed hours,
It is not by the dock,
That Satan, grisly wolf, devours
The unprotected flock_"

The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill,
from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.
They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and
listened again.

"_But ever prowls th' insidious foe,
And listens round the fold_"

This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his
crozier, and shouted--

"Hi, there!"

The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened;
and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the
summit.

"Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot--and St.
Udy O, glory be!"

"Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in
amazement.

"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin'
over the hills when we spied you, three hours back. An' the trouble
we've had to cover up our blessed church out o' sight of thim
marautherin' thieves! An' the intire parish gathered inside here an'
singin' good-by songs in expectation of imminent death! An' to think
'twas you holy men, all the while! But why didn't ye send word ye was
comin', St. Petroc, darlint? For it's little but sand ye'll find in
your mouths for breakfast, I'm thinkin'."




IN THE TRAIN.


I.--PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY.

The first-class smoking compartment was the emptiest in the whole
train, and even this was hot to suffocation, because my only companion
denied me more than an inch of open window. His chest, he explained
curtly, was "susceptible." As we crawled westward through the glaring
country, the sun's rays reverberated on the carriage roof till I
seemed to be crushed under an anvil, counting the strokes. I had
dropped my book, and was staring listlessly out of the window. At the
other end of the compartment my fellow-passenger had pulled down the
blinds, and hidden his face behind the _Western Morning News_. He
was a red and choleric little man of about sixty, with a protuberant
stomach, a prodigious nose, to which he carried snuff about once in
two minutes, and a marked deformity of the shoulders. For comfort--and
also, perhaps, to hide this hump--he rested his back in the angle
by the window. He wore a black alpaca coat, a high stock, white
waistcoat, and trousers of shepherd's plaid. On these and a few other
trivial details I built a lazy hypothesis that he was a lawyer, and
unmarried.

Just before entering the station at Lostwithiel, our train passed
between the white gates of a level crossing. A moment before I had
caught sight of the George drooping from the church spire, and at the
crossing I saw it was regatta-day in the small town. The road was
thick with people and lined with sweet-standings; and by the near end
of the bridge a Punch-and-Judy show had just closed a performance. The
orchestra had unloosed his drum, and fallen to mopping the back of his
neck with the red handkerchief that had previously bound the panpipes
to his chin. A crowd still loitered around, and among it I noted
several men and women in black--ugly stains upon the pervading
sunshine.

The station platform was cram-full as we drew up, and it was clear at
once that all the carriages in the train would be besieged, without
regard to class. By some chance, however, ours was neglected, and
until the very last moment we seemed likely to escape. The guard's
whistle was between his lips when I heard a shout, then one or two
feminine screams, and a company of seven or eight persons came
charging out of the booking-office. Every one of them was apparelled
in black: they were, in fact, the people I had seen gaping at the
Punch-and-Judy show.

In a moment one of the men tore open the door of our compartment, and
we were invaded. One--two--four--six--seven--in they poured, tumbling
over my legs, panting, giggling inanely, exhorting each other to
hurry--an old man, two youths, three middle-aged women, and a little
girl about four years old. I heard a fierce guttural sound, and saw my
fellow-passenger on his feet, choking with wrath and gesticulating.
But the guard slammed the door on his resentment, and the train moved
on. As it gathered speed he fell back, all purple above his stock,
snatched his malacca walking-cane from under the coat-tails of a
subsiding youth, stuck it upright between his knees, and glared round
upon the intruders. They were still possessed with excitement over
their narrow escape, and unconscious of offence. One of the women
dropped into the corner seat, and took the little girl on her lap. The
child's dusty boots rubbed against the old gentleman's trousers. He
shifted his position, grunted, and took snuff furiously.

"That was nibby-jibby," observed the old man of the party, while his
eyes wandered round for a seat.

"I declare I thought I should ha' died," panted a robust-looking woman
with a wart on her cheek, and a yard of crape hanging from her bonnet.
"Can't 'een find nowhere to sit, uncle?"

"Reckon I must make shift 'pon your lap, Susannah."

This was said with a chuckle, and the woman tittered.

"What new-fang'd game be this o' the Great Western's? Arms to the
seats, I vow. We'll have to sit intimate, my dears."

"'Tis First Class," one of the young men announced in a chastened
whisper: "I saw it written on the door."

There was a short silence of awe.

"Well!" ejaculated Susannah: "I thought, when first I sat down, that
the cushions felt extraordinary plum. You don't think they'll fine
us?"

"It all comes of our stoppin' to gaze at that Punch-an'-Judy," the old
fellow went on, after I had shown them how to turn back the arm-seats,
and they were settled in something like comfort. "But I never _could_
refrain from that antic, though I feels condemned too, in a way, an'
poor Thomas laid in earth no longer ago than twelve noon. But in the
midst of life we are in death."

"I don't remember a more successful buryin'," said the woman who held
the little girl.

"That was partly luck, as you may say, it bein' regatta-day an' the
fun o' the fair not properly begun. I counted a lot at the cemetery I
didn' know by face, an' I set 'em down for excursionists, that caught
sight of a funeral, an' followed it to fill up the time."

"It all added."

"Oh, aye; Thomas was beautifully interred."

By this time the heat in the carriage was hardly more overpowering
than the smell of crape, broadcloth, and camphor. The youth who had
wedged himself next to me carried a large packet of "fairing," which
he had bought at one of the sweet-stalls. He began to insert it into
his side pocket, and in his struggles drove an elbow sharply into my
ribs. I shifted my position a little.

"Tom's wife would ha' felt it a source o' pride, had she lived."

But I ceased to listen; for in moving I had happened to glance at the
further end of the carriage, and there my attention was arrested by
a curious little piece of pantomime. The little girl--a dark-eyed,
intelligent child, whose pallor was emphasised by the crape which
smothered her--was looking very closely at the old gentleman with the
hump--staring at him hard, in fact. He, on the other hand, was leaning
forward, with both hands on the knob of his malacca, his eyes bent on
the floor and his mouth squared to the surliest expression. He
seemed quite unconscious of her scrutiny, and was tapping one foot
impatiently on the floor.

After a minute I was surprised to see her lean forward and touch him
gently on the knee.

He took no notice beyond shuffling about a little and uttering a
slight growl. The woman who held her put out an arm and drew back
the child's hand reprovingly. The child paid no heed to this, but
continued to stare. Then in another minute she again bent forward, and
tapped the old gentleman's knee.

This time she fetched a louder growl from him, and an irascible glare.
Not in the least daunted, she took hold of his malacca, and shook it
to and fro in her small hand.

"I wish to heavens, madam, you'd keep your child to yourself!"

"For shame, Annie!" whispered the poor woman, cowed by his look.

But again Annie paid no heed. Instead, she pushed the malacca towards
the old gentleman, saying--

"Please, sir, will 'ee warm Mister Barrabel wi' this?"

He moved uneasily, and looked harshly at her without answering. "For
shame, Annie!" the woman murmured a second time; but I saw her lean
back, and a tear started and rolled down her cheek.

"If you please, sir," repeated Annie, "will 'ee warm Mister Barrabel
wi' this?"

The old gentleman stared round the carriage. In his eyes you could
read the question, "What in the devil's name does the child mean?" The
robust woman read it there, and answered him huskily--

"Poor mite! she's buried her father this mornin'; an' Mister Barrabel
is the coffin-maker, an' nailed 'en down."

"Now," said Annie, this time eagerly, "will 'ee warm him same as the
big doll did just now?"

Luckily, the old gentleman did not understand this last allusion. He
had not seen the group around the Punch-and-Judy show; nor, if he had,
is it likely he would have guessed the train of thought in the child's
mind. But to me, as I looked at my fellow-passenger's nose and the
deformity of his shoulders, and remembered how Punch treats the
undertaker in the immortal drama, it was all plain enough. I glanced
at the child's companions. Nothing in their faces showed that they
took the allusion; and the next moment I was glad to think that I
alone knew what had prompted Annie's speech.

For the next moment, with a beautiful change on his face, the old
gentleman had taken the child on his knee, and was talking to her as I
dare say he had never talked before.

"Are you her mother?" he asked, looking up suddenly, and addressing
the woman opposite.

"Her mother's been dead these two year. I'm her aunt, an' I'm takin'
her home to rear 'long wi' my own childer."

He was bending over Annie, and had resumed his chat. It was all
nonsense--something about the silver knob of his malacca--but it took
hold of the child's fancy and comforted her. At the next station I had
to alight, for it was the end of my journey. But looking back into
the carriage as I shut the door, I saw Annie bending forward over the
walking-stick, and following the pattern of its silverwork with her
small finger. Her face was turned from the old gentleman's, and behind
her little black hat his eyes were glistening.


II.--A CORRECTED CONTEMPT.

The whistles had sounded, and we were already moving slowly out of St.
David's Station, Exeter, to continue our journey westward, when
the door was pulled open and a brown bag, followed by a whiff of
_Millefleurs_ and an over-dressed young man, came flying into the
compartment where I sat alone and smoked.

The youth scrambled to a seat as the door slammed behind him; remarked
that it was "a near shave"; and laughed nervously as if to assure
me that he found it a joke. His face was pink with running, and the
colour contrasted unpleasantly with his pale sandy hair and moustache.
He wore a light check suit, a light-blue tie knotted through a
"Mizpah" ring, a white straw hat with a blue ribbon, and two
finger-rings set with sham diamonds--altogether the sort of outfit
that its owner would probably have described as "rather nobby."
Feeling that just now it needed a few repairs, he opened the bag,
pulled out a duster and flicked away for half-a-minute at his brown
boots. Next with a handkerchief he mopped his face and wiped round the
inner edge first of his straw hat, and then of his collar and cuffs.
After this he stood up, shook his trousers till they hung with
a satisfying gracefulness, produced a cigar-case--covered with
forget-me-nots in crewel work--and a copy of the _Sporting Times_, sat
down again, and asked me if I could oblige him with a light.

I think the train had neared Dawlish before the cigar was fairly
started, and his pink face hidden behind the pink newspaper. But even
so between the red sandstone cliffs and the wholesome sea this pink
thing would not sit still. His diamond rings kept flirting round the
edge of the _Sporting Times_, his brown boots shifting their position
on the cushion in front of him, his legs crossing, uncrossing,
recrossing, his cigar-smoke rising in quick, uneasy puffs.

Between Teignmouth and Newton Abbot this restlessness increased. He
dropped some cigar-ash on his waistcoat and arose to shake it off.
Twice or thrice he picked up the paper and set it down again. As we
ran into Newton Abbot Station, he came over to my side of the carriage
and scanned the small crowd upon the platform. Suddenly his pink
cheeks flushed to crimson. The train was slowing to a standstill, and
while he hesitated with a hand on the door, a little old man came
trotting down the platform--a tremulous little man, in greenish black
broadcloth, eloquent of continued depression in some village retail
trade. His watery eyes shone brimful of pride and gladness.

"Whai, Charley, lad, there you be, to be shure; an' lookin' as peart
as a gladdy! Shaäke your old vather's vist, lad--ees fay, you be
lookin' well!"

The youth, scorched with a miserable shame, stepped out, put his hand
in his father's, and tried to withdraw him a little up the platform
and out of my hearing.

"Noa, noa; us'll bide where us be, zoa's to be 'andy vur the train
when her starts off. Her doan't stay no while. I vound Zam Emmet
zarving here as porter--you mind Zam? Danged if I knawed 'en, vurst
along, the vace of 'en's that altered: grawed a beard, her hev. But
her zays to me, 'How be gettin' 'long, Isaac?' an' then I zaw who
'twas--an' us fell to talkin', and her zaid the train staps vaive
minnits, no more nor less."

His son interrupted him with mincing haughtiness.

"'Ow's mothaw?"

"Weist an' ailin', poor crittur--weist an' ailin'. Dree times her've
a-been through the galvanic battery, an' might zo well whistle. Turble
lot o' zickness about. An' old Miss Ruby's resaigned, an' a new
postmistress come in her plaäce--a tongue-tight pore crittur, an'
talks London. If you'll b'lieve _me_, Miss Ruby's been to Plymouth
'pon her zavings an' come back wi' vifteen pound' worth of valse teeth
in her jaws, which, as I zaid, 'You must excoose my plain speakin',
but they've a-broadened your mouth, Miss Ruby, an' I laiked 'ee better
as you was bevore.' 'Never mind,' her zays, 'I can chow.' There now,
Charley--zimme I've been doing arl the tarlk, an' thy mother'll be
waitin' wi' dree-score o' questions, zoon as I gets whome. Her'd ha'
corned to gie thee a kiss, if her'd a-been 'n a vit staäte; but her's
zent thee zummat--"

He foraged in the skirt pockets of his threadbare coat and brought
out a paper of sandwiches and a long-nosed apple. I saw the young man
wince.

"Her reckoned you'd veel a wamblin' in the stommick, travellin' arl
the waäy from Hexeter to Plymouth. There, stow it awaäy. Not veelin'
peckish? Never maind: there's a plenty o' taime betwix' this an'
Plymouth."

"No, thanks."

"Tut-tut, now--" He insisted, and the packet, on the white paper
wrapper of which spots of grease were spreading, changed hands. The
little man peered wistfully up into his son's face: his own eyes were
full of love, but seemed to search for something.

"How dost laike it, up to Hexeter: an' how't get along?"

"Kepital--kepital. Give mothaw my love."

"E'es be shure. Fainely plaized her'll be to hear thee'rt zo naicely
adrest. Her'd maäde up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons ud
be out, wi' nobody to zee arter 'en. But I declare thee'rt drest laike
a topsawyer."

And with this a dead silence fell between the two. The old man shifted
his weight from one foot to another, and twice cleared his throat. The
young counter-jumper averted his eyes from his father's quivering lip
to stare up the platform. The minutes ran on.

At last the old man found his voice--

"Thic' there's a stubbard apple you've got in your hand."

"Take your seats, please!"

The guard held the door while they shook hands again. "Charley" leaned
out at the window as our train began to move.

"Her comes from the zeccond 'spalier past the inyon-bed; al'ays the
vurst to raipen, thic' there tree."

The old fellow broke into something resembling a run as he followed
our carriage to shout--

"Turble bad zayson vur zaider!"

With that he halted at the end of the platform, and watched us out of
sight. His son flung himself on the seat with--I could have kicked him
for it--a deprecatory titter. Then he drew a long breath; but it was
twenty minutes before his blush faded, and he regained confidence to
ask me for another light.

Just eighteen months after I was travelling up to London in the Zulu
express. A large Fair Trade meeting had been held at Plymouth the
night before, and three farmers in the compartment with me were
discussing that morning's leader in the _Western Daily Mercury_. One
of them had already been goaded into violent speech when we halted at
Newton Abbot and another passenger stepped in--a little old man in a
suit of black.

I recognised him at once. And yet he was changed woefully. He had
fallen away in flesh; the lines had deepened beside his upper lip; and
in spite of a glossier suit he had an appearance of hopelessness which
he had not worn when I saw him for the first time.

He took his seat, looked about him vacantly and caught the eye of the
angry farmer, who nodded, broke off his speech in the middle of a
sentence, and asked in a curiously gentle voice--

"Travellin' up to Exeter?"

The old man bent his head for "yes," and I saw the tears well up in
his weak eyes.

"There's no need vur to ax your arrand." The farmer here dropped his
tone almost to a whisper.

"Naw, naw. I be goin' up to berry 'en. Ees, vriends," he went on,
looking around and asking, with that glance, the sympathy of all
present, "to berry my zon, my clever zon, my only zon."

Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then the kindly farmer observed--

"Aye, I've heerd zay a' was very clever to his traäde. 'Uxtable an'
Co., his employers, spoke very handsome of 'en, they tell me. I can't
call to maind, tho', that I've a-zet eyes 'pon the young man since he
was a little tacker."

The old man began to fumble in his breastpocket, and drawing out a
photograph, handed it across.

"That's the last that was took of 'en."

"Pore young chap," said the farmer, holding the likeness level with
his eyes and studying it; "Pore young chap! Zuch a respectable lad to
look at! They tell me a' made ye a gude zon, too."

"Gude?" The tears ran down the father's face and splashed on his
hands, trembling as they folded over the knob of his stout stick.
"Gude? I b'lieve, vriends, ye'll call it gude when a young man zends
the third o' his earnin's week by week to help his parents. That's
what my zon did, vrum the taime he left whome. An' presunts--never a
month went by, but zome little gift ud come by the postman; an' little
'twas he'd got to live 'pon, at the best, the dear lad--"

The farmer was passing back the photograph. "May I see it?" I asked:
and the old man nodded.

It was the same face--the same suit, even--that had roused my contempt
eighteen months before.




WOON GATE.

It was on a cold and drenching afternoon in October that I spent an
hour at Woon Gate: for in all the homeless landscape this little
round-house offers the only shelter, its windows looking east and west
along the high-road and abroad upon miles of moorland, hedgeless,
dotted with peat-ricks, inhabited only by flocks of grey geese and a
declining breed of ponies, the chartered vagrants of Woon Down. Two
miles and more to the north, and just under the rim of the horizon,
straggle the cottages of a few tin-streamers, with their backs to the
wind. These look down across an arable country, into which the women
descend to work at seed-time and harvest, and whence, returning, they
bring some news of the world. But Woon Gate lies remoter. It was never
more than a turnpike; and now the gate is down, the toll-keeper dead,
and his widow lives alone in the round-house. She opened the door
to me--a pleasant-faced old woman of seventy, in a muslin cap, red
turnover, and grey gown hitched very high. She wore no shoes inside
her cottage, but went about in a pair of coarse worsted stockings on
all days except the very rawest, when the chill of the lime-ash floor
struck into her bones.

"May I wait a few minutes till the weather lifts?" I asked.

She smiled and seemed almost grateful.

"You'm kindly welcome, be sure: that's if you don't mind the
Vaccination."

I suppose that my face expressed some wonder: for she went on, shaking
my dripping hat and hanging it on a nail by the fire--

"Doctor Rodda'll be comin' in half-an-hour's time. 'Tis district
Vaccination to-day, and he always inoculates here, 'tis so handy."

She nodded her head at half a dozen deal chairs and a form arrayed
round the wall under a row of sacred texts and tradesmen's almanacks.

"There'll be nine to-day, as I makes it out. I counted 'em up several
times last night."

It was evidently a great day in her eyes.

"But you've allowed room for many more than nine," I pointed out.

"Why, of course. There's some brings their elder childer for a
treat--an' there's always 'Melia Penaluna."

I was on the point of asking who Amelia Penaluna might be, when my
attention was drawn to the small eastern window. Just outside, and
but a dozen paces from the house, there stretched a sullen pond,
over which the wind drove in scuds and whipped the sparse reeds that
encroached around its margin. Beside the further bank of the pond
the high-road was joined by a narrow causeway that led down from
the northern fringe of Woon Down; and along this causeway moved a
procession of women and children.

They were about twenty in all, and, as they skirted the pond, their
figures were sharply silhouetted against the grey sky. Each of the
women held a baby close to her breast and bent over it as she advanced
against the wind, that beat her gown tightly against her legs and
blew it out behind in bellying folds. Yet beneath their uncouth and
bedraggled garments they moved like mothers of a mighty race, tall,
large-limbed, broad of hip, hiding generous breasts beneath the
shawls--red, grey, and black--that covered their babes from the wind
and rain. A few of the children struggled forward under ricketty
umbrellas; but the mothers had their hands full, and strode along
unsheltered. More than one, indeed, faced the storm without bonnet or
covering for the head; and all marched along the causeway like figures
on some sculptured frieze, their shadows broken beneath them on the
ruffled surface of the pond. I said that each of the women carried a
babe: but there was one who did not--a plain, squat creature, at the
tail of the procession, who wore a thick scarf round her neck, and a
shawl of divers bright colours. She led a small child along with one
hand, and with the other attempted to keep a large umbrella against
the wind.

"Nineteen--twenty--twenty-one," counted the toll-keeper's widow behind
me as I watched the spasmodic jerkings of this umbrella. "I wasn't far
out in my reckon. And you, sir, make twenty-two. It niver rains but it
pours, they say. Times enow I don't see a soul for days together, not
to hail by name, an' now you drops in on top of a Vaccination."

Her sigh over this plethora of good fortune was interrupted by a