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was not, in fact, like a pulse of time at all. It was like a perfectly calm and perfectly quiet sinking aside, into a region altogether outside the jeopardies and agitations of time. John and the young girl who was seated on the further side of the driver exchanged a long stare.
    “You don't mind, Miss, do 'ee?” repeated the man. “ 'Tis a long walk for the gentleman; and the Canon would wish all that come to his burying to be treated proper.”
    The nervous mouth of the young person he thus addressed, which had mechanically opened, showing a row of long, strong, white teeth, shut abruptly, and her eyes, which had become large and round, became little dark-lashed slits in her sallow face. “Of course not,” she murmured in a low voice, making herself extremely small and pressing close to the man's elbow.
    John Crow walked round the rear of the machine and after a moment's clumsy fumbling at the handle pulled the door open, clambered up, and sat down by the girl's side. “All comfortable?” asked the driver. “Very, thank you!” came so simultaneously from both John and the young girl that it sounded incoherent. The man, however, started the car without further parley.
    “Is my nephew expecting you to lunch?” came the pleasant voice of the majestic lady from amid the luggage. “I wonder if you are one of the cousins?” she went on. “There are really a terrible lot of us. And we shall all be here.” There was a pause during which the driver remarked that there wouldn't be many of the local people either who'd stay away. "They respect Canon Crow in Northwold more'n anyone would suppose, seeing how little he came out towards the end.
    “He speaks as if Grandfather were a snail,” thought the young girl.
    “My father liked his books better than visiting,” the lady continued. “But he used to read beautifully at people's bedsides. I've heard him do that often when I was little. Some clergymen have such poor voices.”
    “I never heard'n read myself,” replied the driver thoughtfully. “Maybe 'twould have been better if I had. My dad brought me up chapel; and chapel I've stayed; though I've often thought 'twere a pity. Chapel be all for salvation but it neglects the King's Majesty. . . .”
    “That's where we used to look,” broke in John Crow suddenly, addressing the girl as if he had been completely alone with her, “for the towers of Ely!” He pointed with his hand over the wide horizon; and half rising from his seat strained his eyes to catch a glimpse of what he remembered. “Oh, it's too late!” he added, and sank by her side. “These cars go quicker than pony carts. Grandfather used to drive a pony called Judy.”
    “I'm beginning to think I know who you are,” resumed the elderly lady. “Aren't you my nephew John who went lo live in France?”
    It was the girl who replied for him. “Yes, Aunt Elizabeth, he's Cousin John. I knew him at once. You used to come with us sometimes yourself when John took me down the little river in the old boat. Don't you remember, Aunt Elizabeth? He was with us that day we went to Oxborough Ferry, when Cousin Percy was Lhere. Cousin Percy wouldn't fish with worms! You must remember that, Aunt Elizabeth. She kept putting bits of purple loosestrife on her hook.” There was a nervous exaltation in the girl's tone that her aunt did not miss.
    “I knew Mary at once too,” John Crow said, turning round to address their relative, “but you used to be very busy when I stayed at the Rectory so it's no wonder we didn't know each other. Dear Aunt Elizabeth!” And with a rather exaggerated foreign gesture he stretched out his arm, and capturing the stout lady's hand lifted it up to his lips. “I came every summer to North-wold, you know,” he said, and he remained for a minute leaning sideways and holding the hand he had taken. “And I came whe he came,” cried Mary with an abrupt and awkward intensity; an she too turned and leaned back and took possession of her