The blinds had been drawn up, and
Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in
the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all
that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room,
cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful
influence. The thought horrified Philip.
He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the
churchwarden.
"I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he said. "I don't
think he ought to be left alone just yet."
"I haven't made any plans," answered Philip. "if he wants me I shall be
very pleased to stay."
By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner
talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the
Wesleyan chapel.
"I hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile.
"That won't make any difference," said the Vicar. "They'll get as much
money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give
money."
"I see that Holden sent a wreath."
Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's sake who died
for both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak
to him.
"I think it was very pushing," he remarked. "There were forty-one wreaths.
Yours was beautiful.
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