There, too, lay the dead of many generations; for St. Nicholas had been the parish church ever since Monkshaven was a town, and the large churchyard was rich in the dead.  Masters, mariners, ship-owners, seamen:  it seemed strange how few other trades were represented in that great plain so full of upright gravestones.  Here and there was a memorial stone, placed by some survivor of a large family, most of whom perished at sea:—­’Supposed to have perished in the Greenland seas,’ ‘Shipwrecked in the Baltic,’ ’Drowned off the coast of Iceland.’  There was a strange sensation, as if the cold sea-winds must bring with them the dim phantoms of those lost sailors, who had died far from their homes, and from the hallowed ground where their fathers lay.

Each flight of steps up to this churchyard ended in a small flat space, on which a wooden seat was placed.  On this particular Sunday, all these seats were filled by aged people, breathless with the unusual exertion of climbing.  You could see the church stair, as it was called, from nearly every part of the town, and the figures of the numerous climbers, diminished by distance, looked like a busy ant-hill, long before the bell began to ring for afternoon service.  All who could manage it had put on a bit of black in token of mourning; it might be very little; an old ribbon, a rusty piece of crape; but some sign of mourning was shown by every one down to the little child in its mother’s arms, that innocently clutched the piece of rosemary to be thrown into the grave ‘for remembrance.’  Darley, the seaman shot by the press-gang, nine leagues off St. Abb’s Head, was to be buried to-day, at the accustomed time for the funerals of the poorer classes, directly after evening service, and there were only the sick and their nurse-tenders who did not come forth to show their feeling for the man whom they looked upon as murdered.  The crowd of vessels in harbour bore their flags half-mast high; and the crews were making their way through the High Street.  The gentlefolk of Monkshaven, full of indignation at this interference with their ships, full of sympathy with the family who had lost their son and brother almost within sight of his home, came in unusual numbers—­no lack of patterns for Sylvia; but her thoughts were far otherwise and more suitably occupied.  The unwonted sternness and solemnity visible on the countenances of all whom she met awed and affected her.  She did not speak in reply to Molly’s remarks on the dress or appearance of those who struck her.  She felt as if these speeches jarred on her, and annoyed her almost to irritation; yet Molly had come all the way to Monkshaven Church in her service, and deserved forbearance accordingly.  The two mounted the steps alongside of many people; few words were exchanged, even at the breathing places, so often the little centres of gossip.  Looking over the sea there was not a sail to be seen; it seemed bared of life, as if to be in serious harmony with what was going on inland.