It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for Mr
Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested,
was a stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription
recording how and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful
and apart, until their time was out, and the distant horn told that the
coach was coming.
Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the
sound; and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked
into his basket straightway, entreating society in general (as though
he intended a kind of satire upon them in connection with churchyards)
never to say die on any terms. They were soon on the coach-top and
rolling along the road.
It went round by the Maypole, and stopped at the door. Joe was from
home, and Hugh came sluggishly out to hand up the parcel that it called
for. There was no fear of old John coming out. They could see him from
the coach-roof fast asleep in his cosy bar. It was a part of John's
character. He made a point of going to sleep at the coach's time. He
despised gadding about; he looked upon coaches as things that ought
to be indicted; as disturbers of the peace of mankind; as restless,
bustling, busy, horn-blowing contrivances, quite beneath the dignity of
men, and only suited to giddy girls that did nothing but chatter and go
a-shopping.
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