n for a long time past that this would come
suddenly--known, and not said a word. He gazed with an awed and
passionate reverence. The loneliness of it--just to spare his mother
and himself! His own trouble seemed small while he was looking at that
face. The word scribbled on the page! The farewell word! Now his mother
had no one but himself! He went up close to the dead face--not changed
at all, and yet completely changed. He had heard his father say once
that he did not believe in consciousness surviving death, or that if it
did it might be just survival till the natural age-limit of the body
had been reached--the natural term of its inherent vitality; so that if
the body were broken by accident, excess, violent disease,
consciousness might still persist till, in the course of Nature
uninterfered with, it would naturally have faded out. The whimsical
conceit had struck him. When the heart failed like this--surely it was
not quite natural! Perhaps his father's consciousness was in the room
with him. Above the bed hung a picture of his father's father. Perhaps
HIS consciousness, too, was still alive; and his brother's--his
half-brother, who had died in the Transvaal. Were they all gathered
round this bed? Jon kissed the forehead, and stole back to his own
room. The door between it and his mother's was ajar; she had evidently
been in--everything was ready for him, even some biscuits and hot milk,
and the letter no longer on the floor. He ate and drank, watching the
last light fade. He did not try to see into the future--just stared at
the dark branches of the oak-tree, level with his window, and felt as
if life had stopped. Once in the night, turning in his heavy sleep, he
was conscious of something white and still, beside his bed, and started
up. His mother's voice said:

"It's only I, Jon dear!" Her hand pressed his forehead gently back; her
white figure disappeared.

Alone! He fell heavily asleep again, and dreamed he saw his mother's
name crawling on his bed.

IV

SOAMES COGITATES

The announcement in THE TIMES of his cousin Jolyon's death affected
Soames quite simply. So that chap was gone! There had never been a time
in their two lives when love had not been lost between them. That
quick-blooded sentiment hatred had run its course long since in Soames'
heart, and he had refused to allow any recrudescence, but he considered
this early decease a piece of poetic justice. For twenty years the
fellow had e