CHAPTER XIX.
THE CURATE.
Although it was a bright autumn morning, the stillness of death hovered over Glanyravon Farm.

There was scarcely a sound to be heard within or without.

The men in the yard moved about like spectres, and work was suspended in the harvest fields; whispers circulated from bedroom to kitchen, and from kitchen to outhouse, that the good and kind mistress whom every body loved, was on her deathbed; and how should they labour?
All the talk of the farm-servants was upon subjects ominous of death.
One said that he had heard Lion, the big watch-dog, howl long and loud before daylight; another that he had seen a corpse candle as he went homewards the previous evening; a third that she had seen her mistress all in white at her bedside, looking beautiful; a fourth that she had heard a raven croak; in short, if sighs and wonders could kill poor Mrs Prothero, there was little chance for her life.

Where every one was usually so busy, so full of energy and spirit, there was more than a Sabbath calm.

They were expecting some one, too, for Tom and Bill were looking down the road about every five minutes, whilst Shanno appeared now and again at the back door, and whispered 'Is he coming ?' to which a shake of the head was a constant reply.
The doctor had just gone into the house, and knots of men and women stood about with sorrowful faces; kind neighbours who came one after another to hear the last report as soon as he should again reappear.