A MOORLAND MACHPELAH.There was a sepulchral tone in the voice, and well there might be,for it was a voice from the grave. Floating on the damp autumnalair, and echoing round the forest of tombs, it died away over themoors, on the edge of which the old God's-acre stood.Though far from melodious, it was distinct enough to convey to theear the words of a well-known hymn--a hymn sung in jerkyfragments, the concluding syllable always rising and ending with agasp, as though the singer found his task too heavy, and was boundto pause for breath.The startled listener was none other than Mr. Penrose, thenewly-appointed minister, who was awaiting a funeral, longoverdue. Looking round, his already pale face became a shade paleras he saw no living form, other than himself.There he stood, alone, a stranger in this moorland haunt, amidfalling shadows and rounding gloom, mocked by the mute records andstony memorials of the dead.Again the voice was heard--another hymn, and to a tune as old asthe mossed headstones that threw around their lengthening shadows. 'I'll praise my Maker--while I've breath,'followed by a pause, as though breath had actually forsaken thebody of the singer. But in a moment or two the strain continued: 'And when my voice--is lost in death.'Whereon the sounds ceased, and there came a final silence, deathseeming to take the singer at his word.As Mr. Penrose looked in the direction from which the voicetravelled, he saw a shovel thrown out of a newly-made grave,followed by the steaming head and weather-worn face of old Joseph,the sexton, all aglow with the combined task of grave-digging andsinging.