I set them down as they were told me, across the blue glow of a wreck-wood fire, by Sam Tregear, the parish bedman.

Sam himself had borne an inconspicuous share in them; and because of them Sam's father had carried a white face to his grave.
My father and mother (said Sam) married late in life, for his trade was what mine is, and 'twasn't till her fortieth year that my mother could bring herself to kiss a gravedigger.

That accounts, maybe, for my being born rickety and with other drawbacks that only made father the fonder.
Weather permitting, he'd carry me off to churchyard, set me upon a flat stone, with his coat folded under, and talk to me while he delved.
I can mind, now, the way he'd settle lower and lower, till his head played hidey-peep with me over the grave's edge, and at last he'd be clean swallowed up, but still discoursing or calling up how he'd come upon wonderful towns and kingdoms down underground, and how all the kings and queens there, in dyed garments, was offering him meat for his dinner every day of the week if he'd only stop and hobbynob with them-- and all such gammut.

He prettily doted on me--the poor old ancient! But there came a day--a dry afternoon in the late wheat harvest--when we were up in the churchyard together, and though father had his tools beside him, not a tint did he work, but kept travishing back and forth, one time shading his eyes and gazing out to sea, and then looking far along the Plymouth road for minutes at a time.

Out by Bradden Point there stood a little dandy-rigged craft, tacking lazily to and fro, with her mains'le all shiny-yellow in the sunset.