manded John in a hoarse voice. "Have you, too,
come to preach and sermonise? If so, you can go back where you came
from! I'll have none of that cant here."

"No, no, I leave that to those whose business it is. I'm here as your
doctor"; and Mahony drew up a blind and opened a window. Instantly the
level sun-rays flooded the room; and the air that came in with them
smacked of the sea. Just outside the window a quince-tree in full
blossom reared extravagant masses of pink snow against the blue
overhead; beyond it a covered walk of vines shone golden-green. There
was not a cloud in the sky. To turn back to the musty room from all
this lush and lovely life was like stepping down into a vault.

John had sunk into a seat before a secretaire, and shielded his eyes
from the sun. A burnt-out candle stood at his elbow; and in a line
before him were ranged such images as remained to him of his dead--a
dozen or more daguerrotypes, of various sizes: Emma and he before
marriage and after marriage; Emma with her first babe, at different
stages of its growth; Emma with the two children; Emma in ball-attire;
with a hat on; holding a book.

The sight gave the quietus to Mahony's scruples. Stooping, he laid his
hand on John's shoulder. "My poor fellow," he said gently. "Your sister
was not in a fit state to travel, so I have come in her place to tell
you how deeply, how truly, we feel for you in your loss. I want to try,
too, to help you to bear it. For it has to be borne, John."

At this the torrent burst. Leaping to his feet John began to fling
wildly to and fro; and then, for a time, the noise of his lamentations
filled the room. Mahony had assisted at scenes of this kind before, but
never had he heard the like of the blasphemies that poured over John's
lips. (Afterwards, when he had recovered his distance, he would refer
to it as the occasion on which John took the Almighty to task, for
having dared to interfere in his private life.)

At the moment he sat silent. "Better for him to get it out," he thought
to himself, even while he winced at John's scurrility.

When, through sheer exhaustion, John came to a stop, Mahony cast about
for words of consolation. All reference to the mystery of God's way was
precluded; and he shrank from entering that sound plea for the working
of Time, which drives a spike into the heart of the new-made mourner.
He bethought himself of the children. "Remember, she did not leave you
comfortless. You have