Mr. Trimblerigg might well think after this that a visible halo, though not necessary, had it reappeared just then, would not have come amiss. From his point of view the meeting could not have been more successful; he went down from the platform more famous than when he went up on it. And it was not his speech alone that did it: it was in the air. The great Napoleon was said to have a star: Mr. Trimblerigg had an atmosphere; and though it was not really the larger of the two, to his contemporaries on earth it seemed larger. It was just about this time, when Mr. Trimblerigg was obviously becoming a candidate for national honours after his death, that he attended the public funeral of a great Free Church statesman whose war-winning activities had been closely associated with his own. And as of the two, Mr. Trimblerigg had played the larger part, the prophetic inference was obvious; and though in that high-vaulted aisle, amid uniforms and decorations and wands of office, his demure little figure looked humble and unimportant, he was a marked man for the observation of all who had come to observe. It was an occasion on which Free Churchmen had reason to feel proud. Impelled by the feeling of the nation--still in its early days of gratitude before victory had begun to taste bitter--the Episcopal Church had opened her doors to receive, into that place of highest honour, the dust of one who had lived outside her communion and politically had fought against her. But it was dust only (ashes, that is to say); and while to Mr. Trimblerigg’s perception the whole ceremony, the music, the ritual, the vestments, the crape-scarved uniforms, and the dark crowd of celebrities which formed a background, were deeply impressive in their beauty and symbolism, the little casket of cremated ashes at the centre of it all was not. In that forced economizing of space, the sense of the individual personality had been lost, or brought to insignificance. It gave him an uncomfortable feeling; he did not like it; he wondered why. So long as his thoughts went linked with the indwelling genius of that temple of famous memories he felt thrilled and edified; but whenever his eye returned to the small casket, he experienced a repeated shock and felt discomfited. The condition here imposed, to make national obsequies possible, seemed to him not merely a humiliating one; it spelt annihilation; what remained had ceased to be personal. The temple became a museum; in it with much ceremony an exhibit was being deposited in its case. And so, pondering deeply on these things, he returned home; and added to his will (signing and dating it with a much earlier date) an instruction for his executors, ‘My body is not to be cremated.’ Genius is economy. It could not have been more modestly done.