There was not much emotion in the minds of either of them. The passing had been too long and too gradual. Their brains were weary, if their active bodies were not. They had nursed him turn and turn about, with help from one or another of the faithful women about the house, but the nursing had made no great demands upon them. Neither would have admitted to the other that there was a slight sense of relief in the end having come at last. Gladly they would have kept him with them and spent themselves in his service, even if he should never speak to them or open his eyes upon them again. But they had grown used to the idea of losing him all the same. Life was strong in them, and there would be many things to do when he had gone. The end came as the dusk began to gather in the corners of the room, with a fluttering breath that was like a faint sigh, and a silence hardly more complete than the silence that had been before. The old Rector of Surley was dead, and the way was open for a new Rector to be appointed. The two sensible self-controlled women, who had for so long given their service with a cheerful capability that had seemed almost hard in its efficiency, faced a reaction that neither of them had been prepared for. They sobbed together, and confessed, each of them, that they had not so ardently wished that the dear old man should survive for a few hours or a few days longer than they now wished he had. They would never have him again alive. The thought was hardly to be borne. Their lives would be desolate. This mood lasted all the evening, and was genuine enough in its regret for a time now past and not valued enough while it had lasted. Denis was accused, though not to his face, of want of heart, because he said very little, and had shed no tears whatever. By the end of the evening the fact that they had, and could still do so, had come to be a consolation. By the next morning it had become difficult to shed tears at will, though they still came on occasions, but at rarer intervals. When all the business in connection with the funeral and the notifying of friends and relations had to be met they were ready to meet it, and found satisfaction in the occupations with which every hour of the days that followed were filled. The letters and the calls of sympathy were most gratifying, as showing the high esteem in which the late Rector, and his family, were held. One of the first to call was Mrs. Carruthers, from Surley Park. There had been a coolness, but death overrode everything. The sisters were writing letters at the dining-room table. "We had better go in together," said Rhoda. "It will be less awkward." "If she doesn't say anything I don't see why we should," said Ethel. "Let bygones be bygones, I say, at a time like this." "I wonder if the Bishop has said anything to her," said Rhoda, as they went across the hall together. The Bishop of the Diocese was Mrs. Carruthers's uncle.