“Yes, he is failing day by day, and unfolding himself at the same time. I never quite realized before how beautiful and single-hearted his character is; he comes now to see me, or rather to sit and meditate in my presence, after he has been to your mother’s grave, and when he has sat and rested, he speaks of you. You can gather the way, I fancy, from his letters—oh, the quaintness, the pathetic grotesqueness of his remarks!” “I have often wanted to ask you if Mr. Fellowes ever brings his professional capacity to bear on my father?” asked Gwen. “Never. ‘Only God is fit to undertake the care of such a soul as his,’ John says, ‘neither he nor his soul are subject to ordinary laws, each lives out the life given it to live.’ Good gracious! fancy John or any other parson attempting to shove theology into such a nature, or to dig down after his beliefs! Gwen, darling, you may be in good condition, but how very tired you look!” “Tired! Oh yes, I am, I cannot tell you how tired! At first I used to live in a whirl so as to tire myself, now there’s no need of it, I am just as tired when I get up as when I go to bed, and nothing will drive the days on, and the endlessness of life sickens one. I feel crêpey enough to please anyone, goodness knows, but even if Humphrey never comes, I will neither wear crêpe nor put on any of the trappings of decent widowhood, for I know he never got my message. If he is dead, he died knowing nothing, I am no honest widow of his, and I will wear hats to the end of the chapter, and possibly grow fat and outrival Lady Mary, who knows! “You see, my life is a healthy one, I ride miles a day all over the farms, there isn’t a fact concerning manure I couldn’t tell you; as to drainage, I feel like turning into a pipe myself; I have even a medicine chest, and doctor the babies, Heaven help them! If I could only follow him as he would me, it would be less awful, but you see, there’s baby, my place is here, and I must just stand and wait like those wretched creatures in the hymn. As for those relief expeditions, though I send cheques, I look upon them as a farce, as if he wanted to be caught and brought home like a missionary!” “It seems to me you are on the go from morning to night, what time do you leave yourself for sleeping?” “Oh, any amount, more than I want.” “How long did you sleep last night?” “Oh, I forget. Are you too tired to drive to a farm about a mile away?” “Tired! No, dear,” stooping down and kissing her, “but must you go? Lie down, and let me read to you.” Anything in the shape of tenderness was just the one stroke too much for Gwen, she gave a quick dry sob and moved away.