 to everything. He still
appeared to have the conversation very strongly in his mind, for although, when
they were alone again, he issued orders for the instant preparation of
innumerable kettles for purposes of tea, he was thoughtful, and rather seemed to
do so from an abstract sense of duty, than with any regard to making himself
agreeable, or being what is commonly called good company.
    They were to return by the coach. As there was an interval of full two hours
before it started, and they needed rest and some refreshment, Barnaby begged
hard for a visit to the Maypole. But his mother, who had no wish to be
recognised by any of those who had known her long ago, and who feared besides
that Mr. Haredale might, on second thoughts, despatch some messenger to that
place of entertainment in quest of her, proposed to wait in the churchyard
instead. As it was easy for Barnaby to buy and carry thither such humble viands
as they required, he cheerfully assented, and in the churchyard they sat down to
take their frugal dinner.
    Here again, the raven was in a highly reflective state; walking up and down
when he had dined, with an air of elderly complacency which was strongly
suggestive of his having his hands under his coat-tails; and appearing to read
the tombstones with a very critical taste. Sometimes, after a long inspection of
an epitaph, he would strop his beak upon the grave to which it referred, and cry
in his hoarse tones, »I'm a devil, I'm a devil, I'm a devil!« but whether he
addressed his observations to any supposed person below, or merely threw them
off as a general remark, is matter of uncertainty.
    It was a quiet pretty spot, but a sad one for Barnaby's mother; for Mr.
Reuben Haredale lay there, and near the vault in which his ashes rested, was a
stone to the memory of her own husband, with a brief inscription recording how
and when he had lost his life. She sat here, thoughtful and apart, until their
time was out, and the distant horn told that the coach was coming.
    Barnaby, who had been sleeping on the grass, sprung up quickly at the sound;
and Grip, who appeared to understand it equally well, walked into his basket
straightway, entreating society in general (as though he intended a kind of
satire upon them in connection with churchyards) never to say die on any terms.
They were soon on the coach-top and rolling along the road.
    It went
