The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped his face from time to time. Mrs. Collins came in. She had a large tin candlestick in her hand in which there was a fragment of candle end. He motioned to her to put it aside. She put it on the table out of the way of his eyes. "You'll help Esther to lay me out.... I don't want any one else. I don't like the other woman." "Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind easy; none but we two shall touch you." Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed to her how he wished the bed-clothes to be arranged, for he could no longer speak. Mrs. Collins whispered to Esther that she did not think that the end could be far off, and compelled by a morbid sort of curiosity she took a chair and sat down. Esther wiped away the little drops of sweat as they came upon his forehead; his chest and throat had to be wiped also, for they too were full of sweat. His eyes were fixed on the darkness and he moved his hand restlessly, and Esther always understood what he wanted. She gave him a little brandy-and-water, and when he could not take it from the glass she gave it to him with a spoon. The silence grew more solemn, and the clock on the mantelpiece striking ten sharp strokes did not interrupt it; and then, as Esther turned from the bedside for the brandy, Mrs. Collins's candle spluttered and went out; a little thread of smoke evaporated, leaving only a morsel of blackened wick; the flame had disappeared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and Esther saw darkness where there had been a light. Then she heard Mrs. Collins say-- "I think it is all over, dear." The profile on the pillow seemed very little. "Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it may come on the glass." "He's dead, right enough. You see, dear, there's not a trace of breath on the glass." "I'd like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer with me?" "Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases the heart wonderful." XLV She stood on the platform watching the receding train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line; the white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage would pass out of sight. The white gates swung slowly forward and closed over the line. An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the seat beside her. A woman of seven or eight and thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms and hard-worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a threadbare jacket too thin for the dampness of a November day. Her face was a blunt outline, and the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the Saxon.