'Saints defend us, parson, cried the mother; 'talk not of burying!
I did never see children liker to live.' 'Nor I,' said the cure, 'the
praise be to God. Natheless, they are sure to die, being sons of Adam,
as well as of thee, dame. But die when they will, 'twill cost them
nothing, the burial fees being paid and entered in this book.' 'For all
that 'twill cost them something,' quoth the miller, the greatest wag
in the place, and as big a knave as any; for which was the biggest God
knoweth, but no mortal man, not even the hangman. 'Miller, I tell thee
nay,' quo' the cure. 'Parson, I tell you ay,' quo' the miller. ''Twill
cost them their lives.' At which millstone conceit was a great laugh;
and in the general mirth the fees were paid and the Christians made.
"But when the next parishioner's child, and the next after, and all, had
to pay each his burial fee, or lose his place in heaven, discontent did
secretly rankle in the parish. Well, one fine day they met in
secret, and sent a churchwarden with a complaint to the bishop, and a
thunderbolt fell on the poor cure. Came to him at dinner-time a summons
to the episcopal palace, to bring the parish books and answer certain
charges. Then the cure guessed where the shoe pinched. He left his food
on the board, for small his appetite now, and took the parish books and
went quaking.
"The bishop entertained him with a frown, and exposed the plaint.
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