"Don't say that. We often court physical trouble ourselves when we are driven frantic with mental trouble. I know that. I've suffered too in my time; though maybe none of the living--but one--will ever know how much. But 'tis senseless to risk your own life here and fling open your lungs to the east wind because your dear son has gone. Remember 'tis no great ill to die, Humphrey." "Then why do you ask me to be thoughtful to live?" "I mean we mustn't mourn over Mark for himself--only his loss for ourselves. He's out of it. No more east wind for him. 'Tis our grief that's left. His grief's done; his carking cares be vanished for ever. You mustn't despair, Humphrey." "And you pass for an understanding man, I suppose? And tell me not to despair. Despair's childish. Only children despair when they break their toys. And grown-up children too. But not me. I never despair, because I never hope. I made him. I created him. He was a good son to me." "And a good man every way. Gentle and kind--too gentle and kind, for that matter. Thank God we're all Christians. Blessed are the meek. His cup of joy is full, and where he is now, Humphrey, his only grief is to see ours." "That's the sort of stuff that's got you a great name for a sympathetic and feeling man, I suppose? D'you mean it, or is it just the natural flow of words, as the rain falls and the water rolls down-hill? I tell you that he was a good man, and a man to make others happy in his mild, humble way. Feeble you might call him here and there. And his feebleness ended him. Too feeble to face life without that heartless baggage!" "Leave her alone. You don't understand that side, and this isn't the time to try and make you. She's hit hard enough." Humphrey regarded his brother with a blazing glance of rage. Then his features relaxed and he smiled strangely at his own heart, but not at Nathan. "I was forgetting," he said. Then he relapsed into silence. Presently he spoke again. "My Mark wasn't much more than a picture hung on a wall to some people. Perhaps he wasn't much more to me. But you miss the picture if 'tis taken down. I never thought of such a thing happening. I didn't know or guess all that was hidden bottled up in him. I thought he was getting over it; but, lover-like, he couldn't think she'd really gone. Then something--the woman herself, I suppose--rubbed it into him that there was no more hope; and then he took himself off like this. For such a worthless rag--to think! And I suppose she'll hear his bell next Sunday without turning a hair." "Don't say that. She's terribly cut up and distressed. And I'm sure none--none will ever listen to his bell like we used to. 'Twill always have a sad message for everybody that knew Mark."