“Mark,” he said once, “remember David.  Why weep for the child?  I shall go to him, but he will not come to me.”

None knew, meanwhile, why the old man needed not to talk of Tom to his friends and neighbours; it was because he and Grace never talked of anything else.

* * * * *

So they had lived, and so they had waited, till that week before last Christmas-day, when Mellot and Stangrave made their appearance in Whitbury, and became Mark Armsworth’s guests.

The week slipped on.  Stangrave hunted on alternate days; and on the others went with Claude, who photographed (when there was sun to do it with) Stangrave End, and Whitford Priory, interiors and exteriors; not forgetting the Stangrave monuments in Whitbury church; and sat, too, for many a pleasant hour with the good Doctor, who took to him at once, as all men did.  It seemed to give fresh life to the old man to listen to Tom’s dearest friend.  To him, as to Grace, he could talk openly about the lost son, and live upon the memory of his prowess and his virtues; and ere the week was out, the Doctor, and Grace too, had heard a hundred gallant feats, to tell all which would add another volume to this book.

And Grace stood silently by the old man’s chair, and drank all in without a smile, without a sigh, but not without full many a prayer.

It is the blessed Christmas Eve; the light is failing fast; when down the high street comes the mighty Roman-nosed rat-tail which carries Mark’s portly bulk, and by him Stangrave, on a right good horse.

They shog on side by side—­not home, but to the Doctor’s house.  For every hunting evening Mark’s groom meets him at the Doctor’s door to lead the horses home, while he, before he will take his bath and dress, brings to his blind friend the gossip of the field, and details to him every joke, fence, find, kill, hap and mishap of the last six hours.

The old man, meanwhile, is sitting quietly, with Claude by him, talking —­as Claude can talk.  They are not speaking of Tom just now:  but the eloquent artist’s conversation suits well enough the temper of the good old man, yearning after fresh knowledge, even on the brink of the grave; but too feeble now, in body and in mind, to do more than listen.  Claude is telling him about the late Photographic Exhibition; and the old man listens with a triumphant smile to wonders which he will never behold with mortal eyes.  At last,—­

“This is very pleasant—­to feel surer and surer, day by day, that one is not needed; that science moves forward swift and sure, under a higher guidance than one’s own; that the sacred torch-race never can stand still; that He has taken the lamp out of old and failing hands, only to put it into young and brave ones, who will not falter till they reach the goal.”

Then he lies back again, with closed eyes, waiting for more facts from Claude.

“How beautiful!” says Claude—­“I must compliment you, sir—­to see the child-like heart thus still beating fresh beneath the honours of the grey head, without envy, without vanity, without ambition, welcoming every new discovery, rejoicing to see the young outstripping them.”