“But Abel,” she said.

“I have tried to establish his character and we may find, after all, I did more than we think.  Providence is ever ready to water and tend the good seed that we sow.  But he must be made to abandon this fatal attitude to his father.  It is uncomfortable and inconvenient and helps nobody.  I shall talk to him, I hope, before I die.  He is coming home in a day or two.”

But Abel delayed a week, at his master’s request, that he might help pull a field of mangels, and Mr. Churchouse never saw him again.

During his last days Estelle spent much time with him.  He seldom mentioned any other person but himself.  He wandered in a disjointed fashion over the past and mixed his recollections with his dreams.  He remembered jests and sometimes uttered them, then laughed; but often he laughed to himself without giving any reason for his amusement.

He was thoughtful and apologetic.  Indeed, when he looked up into any face, he always said, “I mourn to give you so much trouble.”  Latterly he confused his visitors, but kept Estelle and Sabina clear in his mind.  He fancied that they had quarrelled and was always seeking to reconcile them.  Every morning he appeared anxious and distressed until they stood by him together and declared that they were the best of friends.  Then he became tranquil.

“That being so,” he said, “I shall depart in peace.”

Estelle relieved the professional nurse and would read, talk, or listen, as he wished.  He spoke disjointedly one day and wove reality and imagination together.

“Much good marble is wasted on graves,” he declared.  “But it doesn’t bring the dead to life.  Do you believe in the resurrection of the body, Estelle?  I hope you find it easy.  That is one of the things I never was honestly able to say I had grasped.  Reason will fight against the nobler tyranny of faith.  The old soul in a glorified body—­yet the same body, you understand.  We shan’t all be in one pattern in heaven.  We shall preserve our individuality; and yet I deprecate passing eternity in this tabernacle.  Improvements may be counted upon, I think.  The art of the Divine Potter can doubtless make beautiful the humblest and the most homely vessel.”

“Nobody who loves you would have you changed,” she assured him.

Then his mind wandered away and he smiled.

“I listened to a street preacher once—­long, long ago when I was young—­and he said that the road to everlasting destruction was lined with women and gin shops.  Upon which a sailor-man, who listened to him, shouted out, ‘Oh death, where is thy sting?’ The meeting dissolved in a very tornado of laughter.  Sailors have a great sense of humour.  It can take the place of a fire on a cold day.  One touch of humour makes the whole world kin.  If you have a baby, teach it to laugh as well as to walk.  But I think your baby will do that readily enough.”

On another occasion he laughed suddenly to himself and explained his amusement to Sabina, who sat by him.