The rooks cawed lazily in the elms before the church as if they knew it were Sunday morning and a day of rest.

A dog lay extended in the middle of the road, basking in the sunshine, a thing which he would not have dared to do on a weekday.

Even the little stream that runs under the old stone bridge, which marks the centre of the village, and then winds its tortuous course round the churchyard, through the Squire's park, and then down the valley on its way to the sea, seemed to flow somewhat more slowly than was its wont.
Feeling just in the humour for a little moralizing, I opened the lych-gate and entered the churchyard.

The congregation were singing the last hymn, the Old Hundredth, if I remember rightly, and the sound of their united voices fitted perfectly into the whole scheme, giving it the one touch that was lacking.

As I strolled along I glanced at the inscriptions on the various tomb-stones, and endeavoured to derive from them some notion of the lives and characters of those whose memories they perpetuated.
"Sacred to the memory of Erasmus Gunning, twenty-seven years Schoolmaster of this Parish.