“How old is Max Mueller?” I asked.

“Twenty-eight, and he scarcely looks to be twenty-two.”

“How long has Mr. Kingsley been here?” I asked.

“Fifteen years—­two years as curate, and then the living becoming vacant, it was given to him.”

She told me a funeral was to take place directly—­that of a poor woman who had been a great sufferer.  “Ah, here it comes,” she said.

There was the bier borne on men’s shoulders and a little company of mourners, the peasantry of the neighborhood, the men wearing smock-frocks.  They were awaiting the clergyman at the lichgate.  Mr. Kingsley appeared at the moment in his surplice, and the procession entered the churchyard, he saying as he walked in front the solemn sentences with which the service begins.  It was the scene which I had witnessed in another part of Hampshire some years before, when the author of The Christian Year was the officiating clergyman.  Mrs. Kingsley and I joined the procession and entered the church.  It was a small, oddly-arranged interior—­brick pavements, high-backed pews, the clerk’s desk adjoining the reading-desk, but a little lower.  Mr. Kingsley read the service in a measured tone, which enabled him to overcome the defect in his utterance noticeable in conversation.  At the grave the rest of the office was said, and here the grief of the poor mourners overcame them.  The family group consisted of the husband of the deceased, a grown-up daughter and a son, a boy of fifteen.  All were much moved, but the boy the most.  He cried bitterly—­a long wail, as if he could not be comforted.  Mr. Kingsley tried to console him, putting his arm over his shoulders.  He said words of sympathy to the others also.  They went their way over the heath to their desolate home.  Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley spoke of the life of toil which had thus ended, and of the patience with which long-continued bodily pain had been borne.  It was clear that the popular author was first of all a parish priest.

We now went into his study, where he lighted a long pipe, and we then returned to a part of the lawn which he called his quarter-deck, and where we walked up and down for near an hour.  What an English summer evening it was!—­dewy and still.  Now and then a slight breeze stirred in the leaves and brought with it wafts of delicate odors from the flowers somewhere hidden in the deep shadows, though as yet it was not night and the sweet twilight lay about us like a charm.  He asked if I knew Maurice.  I did slightly—­had breakfasted with him six weeks before, and had seen enough of him to understand the strong personal influence he exerted.  “I owe all that I am to Maurice,” said Kingsley, “I aim only to teach to others what I get from him.  Whatever facility of expression I have is God’s gift, but the views I endeavor to enforce are those which I learn from Maurice.  I live to interpret him to the people of England.”