He showed her too, how the warriors, whose figures rested on the tombs, had worn those rotting scraps of armour up above--how this had been a helmet, and that a shield, and that a gauntlet--and how they had wielded the great two-handed swords, and beaten men down, with yonder iron mace.
All that he told the child she treasured in her mind; and sometimes, when she awoke at night from dreams of those old times, and rising from her bed looked out at the dark church, she almost hoped to see the windows lighted up, and hear the organ's swell, and sound of voices, on the rushing wind.
The old sexton soon got better, and was about again.

From him the child learnt many other things, though of a different kind.

He was not able to work, but one day there was a grave to be made, and he came to overlook the man who dug it.

He was in a talkative mood; and the child, at first standing by his side, and afterwards sitting on the grass at his feet, with her thoughtful face raised towards his, began to converse with him.
Now, the man who did the sexton's duty was a little older than he, though much more active.

But he was deaf; and when the sexton (who peradventure, on a pinch, might have walked a mile with great difficulty in half-a-dozen hours) exchanged a remark with him about his work, the child could not help noticing that he did so with an impatient kind of pity for his infirmity, as if he were himself the strongest and heartiest man alive.
'I'm sorry to see there is this to do,' said the child when she approached.