They slowly dispersed; Mr. Benson leading Leonard by the hand, and secretly wondering at his self-restraint.  Almost as soon as they had let themselves into the Chapel-house, a messenger brought a note from Mrs. Bradshaw, with a pot of quince marmalade, which, she said to Miss Benson, she thought that Leonard might fancy, and if he did, they were to be sure and let her know, as she had plenty more; or, was there anything else that he would like?  She would gladly make him whatever he fancied.

Poor Leonard! he lay stretched on the sofa, white and tearless, beyond the power of any such comfort, however kindly offered; but this was only one of the many homely, simple attentions, which all came round him to offer, from Mr. Grey, the rector, down to the nameless poor who called at the back door to inquire how it fared with her child.

Mr. Benson was anxious, according to Dissenting custom, to preach an appropriate funeral sermon.  It was the last office he could render to her; it should be done well and carefully.  Moreover, it was possible that the circumstances of her life, which were known to all, might be made effective in this manner to work conviction of many truths.  Accordingly, he made great preparation of thought and paper; he laboured hard, destroying sheet after sheet—­his eyes filling with tears between-whiles, as he remembered some fresh proof of the humility and sweetness of her life.  Oh that he could do her justice! but words seemed hard and inflexible, and refused to fit themselves to his ideas.  He sat late on Saturday, writing; he watched through the night till Sunday morning was far advanced.  He had never taken such pains with any sermon, and he was only half satisfied with it after all.

Mrs. Farquhar had comforted the bitterness of Sally’s grief by giving her very handsome mourning.  At any rate, she felt oddly proud and exulting when she thought of her new black gown; but, when she remembered why she wore it, she scolded herself pretty sharply for her satisfaction, and took to crying afresh with redoubled vigour.  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.