There resounded through the sergeant- major's window-shutters the familiar lines that the deceased choir had rendered over his father's grave:- He comes' the pri'-soners to' re-lease', In Sa'-tan's bon'-dage held'.
When they had finished they went on to another house, leaving him to silence and loneliness as before.
The candle wanted snuffing, but he did not snuff it, and he sat on till it had burnt down into the socket and made waves of shadow on the ceiling.
The Christmas cheerfulness of next morning was broken at breakfast-time by tragic intelligence which went down the village like wind.

Sergeant- Major Holway had been found shot through the head by his own hand at the cross-roads in Long Ash Lane where his father lay buried.
On the table in the cottage he had left a piece of paper, on which he had written his wish that he might be buried at the Cross beside his father.
But the paper was accidentally swept to the floor, and overlooked till after his funeral, which took place in the ordinary way in the churchyard.
Christmas 1897.
ENTER A DRAGOON I lately had a melancholy experience (said the gentleman who is answerable for the truth of this story).

It was that of going over a doomed house with whose outside aspect I had long been familiar--a house, that is, which by reason of age and dilapidation was to be pulled down during the following week.

Some of the thatch, brown and rotten as the gills of old mushrooms, had, indeed, been removed before I walked over the building.

Seeing that it was only a very small house--which is usually called a 'cottage-residence'-- situated in a remote hamlet, and that it was not more than a hundred years old, if so much, I was led to think in my progress through the hollow rooms, with their cracked walls and sloping floors, what an exceptional number of abrupt family incidents had taken place therein--to reckon only those which had come to my own knowledge.