Martin Poyser, while his family passed into the church.  On the outside of this knot stood Mr. Casson, the landlord of the Donnithorne Arms, in his most striking attitude—­that is to say, with the forefinger of his right hand thrust between the buttons of his waistcoat, his left hand in his breeches pocket, and his head very much on one side; looking, on the whole, like an actor who has only a mono-syllabic part entrusted to him, but feels sure that the audience discern his fitness for the leading business; curiously in contrast with old Jonathan Burge, who held his hands behind him and leaned forward, coughing asthmatically, with an inward scorn of all knowingness that could not be turned into cash.  The talk was in rather a lower tone than usual to-day, hushed a little by the sound of Mr. Irwine’s voice reading the final prayers of the burial-service.  They had all had their word of pity for poor Thias, but now they had got upon the nearer subject of their own grievances against Satchell, the Squire’s bailiff, who played the part of steward so far as it was not performed by old Mr. Donnithorne himself, for that gentleman had the meanness to receive his own rents and make bargains about his own timber.  This subject of conversation was an additional reason for not being loud, since Satchell himself might presently be walking up the paved road to the church door.  And soon they became suddenly silent; for Mr. Irwine’s voice had ceased, and the group round the white thorn was dispersing itself towards the church.

They all moved aside, and stood with their hats off, while Mr. Irwine passed.  Adam and Seth were coming next, with their mother between them; for Joshua Rann officiated as head sexton as well as clerk, and was not yet ready to follow the rector into the vestry.  But there was a pause before the three mourners came on:  Lisbeth had turned round to look again towards the grave!  Ah!  There was nothing now but the brown earth under the white thorn.  Yet she cried less to-day than she had done any day since her husband’s death.  Along with all her grief there was mixed an unusual sense of her own importance in having a “burial,” and in Mr. Irwine’s reading a special service for her husband; and besides, she knew the funeral psalm was going to be sung for him.  She felt this counter-excitement to her sorrow still more strongly as she walked with her sons towards the church door, and saw the friendly sympathetic nods of their fellow-parishioners.

The mother and sons passed into the church, and one by one the loiterers followed, though some still lingered without; the sight of Mr. Donnithorne’s carriage, which was winding slowly up the hill, perhaps helping to make them feel that there was no need for haste.

But presently the sound of the bassoon and the key-bugles burst forth; the evening hymn, which always opened the service, had begun, and every one must now enter and take his place.