As they passed by the Phoenix (a little rivulet, by-the-bye, was spouting down from the corner of the sign; and indeed the night was such as might well have caused that suicidal fowl to abandon all thoughts of self-incremation, and submit to an unprecedented death by drowning), there was no idle officer, or lounging waiter upon the threshold.  Military and civilians were all snug in their quarters that night; and the inn, except for the ‘Aldermen’ in the back parlour, was doing no business.  The door was nearly closed, and only let out a tall, narrow slice of candle-light upon the lake of mud, over every inch of which the rain was drumming.

The doctor’s lantern glided by—­and then across the street—­and so leisurely along the foot-way, by the range of lightless hall doors towards the Salmon House, also dark; and so, sharp round the corner, and up to the church-yard gate, which stood a little open, as also the church door beyond, as was evidenced by the feeble glow of a lantern from within.

I dare say old Bob Martin, the sexton, and grave Mr. Irons, the clerk, were reassured when they heard the cheery voice of the rector hailing them by name.  There were now three candles in church; but the edifice looked unpleasantly dim, and went off at the far end into total darkness.  Zekiel Irons was a lean, reserved fellow, with a black wig and blue chin, and something shy and sinister in his phiz.  I don’t think he had entertained honest Bob with much conversation from those thin lips of his during their grizzly tete-a-tete among the black windows and the mural tablets that overhung the aisle.

But the rector had lots to say—­though deliberately and gravely, still the voice was genial and inspiring—­and exorcised the shadows that had been gathering stealthily around the lesser Church functionaries.  Mrs. Irons’s tooth, he learned, was still bad; but she was no longer troubled with ‘that sour humour in her stomach.’  There were sour humours, alas! still remaining—­enough, and to spare, as the clerk knew to his cost.  Bob Martin thanked his reverence; the cold rheumatism in his hip was better.’  Irons, the clerk, replied, ‘he had brought two prayer-books.’  Bob averred ’he could not be mistaken; the old lady was buried in the near-vault; though it was forty years before, he remembered it like last night.  They changed her into her lead coffin in the vault—­he and the undertaker together—­her own servants would not put a hand to her.  She was buried in white satin, and with her rings on her fingers.  It was her fancy, and so ordered in her will.  They said she was mad.  He’d know her face again if he saw her.  She had a long hooked nose; and her eyes were open.  For, as he was told, she died in her sleep, and was quite cold and stiff when they found her in the morning.  He went down and saw the coffin to-day, half an hour after meeting his reverence.’