She spent the Sunday morning in alternately
smoothing down her skirts and adjusting her broad hemmed collar,
or bemoaning the occasion with tearful earnestness. But the
sorrow overcame the little quaint vanity of her heart, as she saw
troop after troop of humbly-dressed mourners pass by into the old
chapel. They were very poor--but each had mounted some rusty
piece of crape, or some faded black ribbon. The old came halting
and slow--the mothers carried their quiet, awe-struck babes.
And not only these were there--but others--equally unaccustomed
to nonconformist worship; Mr. Davis, for instance, to whom Sally
acted as chaperone; for he sat in the minister's pew, as a
stranger; and, as she afterwards said, she had a fellow-feeling
with him, being a Church-woman herself, and Dissenters had such
awkward ways; however, she had been there before, so she could
set him to rights about their fashions.
From the pulpit, Mr. Benson saw one and all--the well-filled
Bradshaw pew--all in deep mourning, Mr. Bradshaw conspicuously so
(he would have attended the funeral gladly if they would have
asked him)--the Farquhars--the many strangers--the still more
numerous poor--one or two wild-looking outcasts who stood afar
off, but wept silently and continually. Mr. Benson's heart grew
very full.
His voice trembled as he read and prayed. But he steadied it as
he opened his sermon--his great, last effort in her honour--the
labour that he had prayed God to bless to the hearts of many.
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