The parson, whose mind was apparently occupied, dropped into the nearest corner, which chanced to be the corner farthest away from Mr Till.  He then instantly opened a copy of The Church Times and began to read it, and the train went forward.  The parson sniffed, absently, as if he had been dozing and a fly had tickled his nose.  Shortly afterwards he sniffed again, but without looking up from his perusals.  He sniffed a third time, and glanced over the top edge of the church times at Mr Till.  Calmed by the innocuous aspect of Mr Till, he bent once more to the paper.  But after an interval he was sniffing furiously.  He glanced at the window; it was open.  Finally he lowered The church times, as who should say:  ’I am a long-suffering man, but really this phenomenon which assaults my nostrils must be seriously inquired into.’

Then it was that he caught sight of the coffin, with Mr Till’s hand caressing it, and Mr Till all in black and carrying a funereal expression.  He straightened himself, pulled himself together on account of his cloth, and said to Mr Till in his most majestic and sympathetic graveside voice—­

’Ah! my dear friend, I see that you have suffered a sad, sad bereavement.’

That rich, resonant voice was positively thrilling when it addressed hopeless grief.  Mr Till did not know what to say, nor where to look.

’You have, however, one thing to be thankful for, very thankful for,’ said the parson after a pause, ’you may be sure the poor thing is not in a trance.’