Bishop, reading as hastily as he dared, began the service in a voice less rich and theatrical than usual.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord. . . ."
And what followed was lost in a violent crash of thunder so that the Bishop was able to omit a line or two without being discovered. The few trees on the bald hill began to sway and rock, bending low toward the earth, and the crape veils of the women performed wild black writhings. In the uproar of wind and thunder only a sentence or two of the service became audible. . . .
"For a thousand years in Thy sight are but as yesterday, seeing that the past is as a watch in the night. . . ."
And then again a wild, angry Nature took possession of the services, drowning out the anxious voice of the Bishop and the loud theatrical sobs of Aunt Cassie, and again there was a sudden breathless hush and the sound of the Bishop's voice, so pitiful and insignificant in the midst of the storm, reading. . . .
"O teach us to number our days that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom."
And again:
"For as much as it hath pleased Almighty God in His Providence to take out of the world the soul of our deceased brother."
And at last, with relief, the feeble, reedlike voice, repeating with less monotony than usual: "The Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the Love of God and the Fellowship of the Holy Ghost be with us all evermore. Amen."
Sabine, in whose hard nature there lay some hidden thing which exulted in storms, barely heard the service. She stood there watching the wild beauty of the sky and the distant sea and the marshes and thinking how different a thing the burial of the first Pentland must have been from the timorous,
