Through this pelting shower of nicknames and bad puns, with an _ad libitum_ accompaniment of groans, howls, hisses, and hee-haws, but of no heavier missiles, Mr.Tryan walked pale and composed, giving his arm to old Mr.Landor, whose step was feeble.

On the other side of him was Mr.Jerome, who still walked firmly, though his shoulders were slightly bowed.
Outwardly Mr.Tryan was composed, but inwardly he was suffering acutely from these tones of hatred and scorn.

However strong his consciousness of right, he found it no stronger armour against such weapons as derisive glances and virulent words, than against stones and clubs: his conscience was in repose, but his sensibility was bruised.
Once more only did the Evangelical curate pass up Orchard Street followed by a train of friends; once more only was there a crowd assembled to witness his entrance through the church gates.

But that second time no voice was heard above a whisper, and the whispers were words of sorrow and blessing.

That second time, Janet Dempster was not looking on in scorn and merriment; her eyes were worn with grief and watching, and she was following her beloved friend and pastor to the grave..