"To be simple in my life and subtle in my thought was my ambition at one time; but I never could rise to subtlety. The native bent was against it. The poem--I do not err in calling it a poem--is called 'Afterwards'--unless you can think of a better title. If any obvious and glaring faults strike you, tell me. No doubt there are many." She read the two pages written in his little, careful and almost feminine hand. "When I am dead, the storm and stress Of many-coloured consciousness Like blossom petals fall away And drops the calyx back to clay; A man, not woman, makes the bed When our night comes and we are dead. "When I am dead, the ebb and flow Of folk where I was wont to go, Will never stay a moment's pace, Or miss along the street my face. Yet thoughts may wake and things be said By one or two when I am dead. "When I am dead, the sunset light Will fill the gap upon the height In summer time, but on the plain Sink down as winter comes again And none who sees the evening red Will know I loved it, who am dead. "When I am dead, upon my mound Exotic flow'rs may first be found, And not until they've blown away Will other blossoms come to stay. A daisy growing overhead Brings gentle pleasure to the dead. "When I am dead, I'd love to see An amber thrush hop over me And bend his ear, as he would know What I am whispering down below. May many a song-bird find his bread Upon my grave when I am dead. "When I am dead, and years shall pass, The scythe will cut the darnel grass Now and again for decency, Where we forgotten people lie. O'er ancient graves the living tread With great impertinence on the dead. "When I am dead, all I have done Must vanish, like the evening sun. My book about the bells may stay Behind me for a fleeting day; But will not very oft be read By anybody when I'm dead." She stopped and smiled with her eyes full of tears. "I had meant to write another verse," he explained, "but I put it off and it's too late now. Such as it is, it is yours. Does it seem to you to be interesting?" "It's very interesting indeed, and very beautiful. I shall always value it as my greatest treasure." "Read it to your children," he said, "and if the opportunity occurs, take them sometimes to see my grave. The spot is long chosen. Let there be no gardening upon it out of good heart but bad taste. I should wish it left largely to Nature. There will be daisies for your babies to pick. I forget the text I selected. It's in my will." He bade her good-bye more tenderly than usual, as though he knew that he would never see her again, and the next morning Bridetown heard that the old man had died in his sleep. The people felt sorry, for he left no enemies, and his many kindly thoughts and deeds were remembered for a little while. CHAPTER XIX NEW WORK FOR ABEL With a swift weaver's knot John Best mended the flying yarn. Then he turned from a novice at the Gill Spinner and listened, not very patiently, to one who interrupted his lesson.