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"
How
should
I
know
?
"
replied
Harris
.
"
She
's
a
lady
that
's
got
a
funny
tomb
,
and
I
want
to
see
it
.
"
I
objected
.
I
do
n't
know
whether
it
is
that
I
am
built
wrong
,
but
I
never
did
seem
to
hanker
after
tombstones
myself
.
I
know
that
the
proper
thing
to
do
,
when
you
get
to
a
village
or
town
,
is
to
rush
off
to
the
churchyard
,
and
enjoy
the
graves
;
but
it
is
a
recreation
that
I
always
deny
myself
.
I
take
no
interest
in
creeping
round
dim
and
chilly
churches
behind
wheezy
old
men
,
and
reading
epitaphs
.
Not
even
the
sight
of
a
bit
of
cracked
brass
let
into
a
stone
affords
me
what
I
call
real
happiness
.
I
shock
respectable
sextons
by
the
imperturbability
I
am
able
to
assume
before
exciting
inscriptions
,
and
by
my
lack
of
enthusiasm
for
the
local
family
history
,
while
my
ill-concealed
anxiety
to
get
outside
wounds
their
feelings
.
One
golden
morning
of
a
sunny
day
,
I
leant
against
the
low
stone
wall
that
guarded
a
little
village
church
,
and
I
smoked
,
and
drank
in
deep
,
calm
gladness
from
the
sweet
,
restful
scene
--
the
grey
old
church
with
its
clustering
ivy
and
its
quaint
carved
wooden
porch
,
the
white
lane
winding
down
the
hill
between
tall
rows
of
elms
,
the
thatched-roof
cottages
peeping
above
their
trim-kept
hedges
,
the
silver
river
in
the
hollow
,
the
wooded
hills
beyond
!
It
was
a
lovely
landscape
.
It
was
idyllic
,
poetical
,
and
it
inspired
me
.
I
felt
good
and
noble
.
I
felt
I
did
n't
want
to
be
sinful
and
wicked
any
more
.
I
would
come
and
live
here
,
and
never
do
any
more
wrong
,
and
lead
a
blameless
,
beautiful
life
,
and
have
silver
hair
when
I
got
old
,
and
all
that
sort
of
thing
.
In
that
moment
I
forgave
all
my
friends
and
relations
for
their
wickedness
and
cussedness
,
and
I
blessed
them
.
They
did
not
know
that
I
blessed
them
.
They
went
their
abandoned
way
all
unconscious
of
what
I
,
far
away
in
that
peaceful
village
,
was
doing
for
them
;
but
I
did
it
,
and
I
wished
that
I
could
let
them
know
that
I
had
done
it
,
because
I
wanted
to
make
them
happy
.
I
was
going
on
thinking
away
all
these
grand
,
tender
thoughts
,
when
my
reverie
was
broken
in
upon
by
a
shrill
piping
voice
crying
out
:
"
All
right
,
sur
,
I
'm
a-coming
,
I
'm
a-coming
.
It
's
all
right
,
sur
;
do
n't
you
be
in
a
hurry
.
"
I
looked
up
,
and
saw
an
old
bald-headed
man
hobbling
across
the
churchyard
towards
me
,
carrying
a
huge
bunch
of
keys
in
his
hand
that
shook
and
jingled
at
every
step
.
I
motioned
him
away
with
silent
dignity
,
but
he
still
advanced
,
screeching
out
the
while
:
