"They'll ha' putten Thias Bede i' the ground afore ye get to the
churchyard," he said, as his son came up. "It 'ud ha' been better luck
if they'd ha' buried him i' the forenoon when the rain was fallin';
there's no likelihoods of a drop now; an' the moon lies like a boat
there, dost see? That's a sure sign o' fair weather--there's a many as
is false but that's sure."
"Aye, aye," said the son, "I'm in hopes it'll hold up now."
"Mind what the parson says, mind what the parson says, my lads," said
Grandfather to the black-eyed youngsters in knee-breeches, conscious of
a marble or two in their pockets which they looked forward to handling,
a little, secretly, during the sermon.
"Dood-bye, Dandad," said Totty. "Me doin' to church. Me dot my neklace
on. Dive me a peppermint."
Grandad, shaking with laughter at this "deep little wench," slowly
transferred his stick to his left hand, which held the gate open, and
slowly thrust his finger into the waistcoat pocket on which Totty had
fixed her eyes with a confident look of expectation.
And when they were all gone, the old man leaned on the gate again,
watching them across the lane along the Home Close, and through the
far gate, till they disappeared behind a bend in the hedge.
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