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sosanklikeachild.
Buttherewasmore.WhenonSundays,asthesweet
bellofWyverntrembledintheair,theVicarhad
walkedaloneuptotheoldgrayporch,andsawthetwo
treesneartheiviednookofthechurchyard-wall,
ahomesicknessyearnedathisheart,andwhenthe
hourcamehisspiritacquiescedindeath.
OldSquireFairfieldknewthatitwastheBishopwho
really,and,asIbelieve,rightlyopposedhim,fortothis
daythevicaragepaysnorent;buttheproudand
violentmanchosetomaketheVicarfeelhis
resentment.Hebeheldhimwithagloomyand
thunderousaspect,neverawordmorewould
heexchangewithhim;heturnedhisbackuponhim;
heforbidhimthefootpathacrossthefieldsofWyvern,
thatmadethewaytochurchshorter.Hewalkedout
ofchurchgrimlywhenhissermonbegan.Heturned
theVicar’scowoffthecommon,andmadehimevery
wayfeeltheweightofhisdispleasure.
Well,nowtheVicarwasdead.Hehadborneitall
verygentlyandsadly,anditwasover,apageinthe
past,nolineerasable,nolineaddibleforever.
“So,Parson’sdeadandburied;servehimright,”said
theSquireofWyvern.“Thanklessrascal.Yougodown
andtellthemImusthavethehouseuponthe24th,
andiftheydon’tgo,youbundle’emout,Thomas
Rooke.”
“There’llbetheVicar’slittlechildthere;who’s
totakeitin,Squire?”askedTomRooke,after
ahesitation.
“Youmay,ortheBishop,d–him.”
“I’mapoorman,and,fortheBishop,he’snotlike
to–”
“Let’emtrytheworkhouse,”saidtheSquire,“where
manyabetterman’sbratis.”
AndhegaveTomRookealookthatmighthave
knockedhimdown,andturnedhisbackonhimand
walkedaway.
Aweekorsoafterhewentdownhimselftothe