When he went up to his bedroom, in which, to do them justice, they had given him a fire, he noticed what indeed he had noticed as soon as he was shown into it on his arrival, that there was an illuminated card framed and glazed over his bed with the words, “Be the day weary or be the day long, at last it ringeth to evensong.”  He wondered to himself how such people could leave such a card in a room in which their visitors would have to spend the last hours of their evening, but he let it alone.  “There’s not enough difference between ‘weary’ and ‘long’ to warrant an ‘or,’” he said, “but I suppose it is all right.”  I believe Christina had bought the card at a bazaar in aid of the restoration of a neighbouring church, and having been bought it had got to be used—­besides, the sentiment was so touching and the illumination was really lovely.  Anyhow, no irony could be more complete than leaving it in my hero’s bedroom, though assuredly no irony had been intended.

On the third day after Ernest’s arrival Christina relapsed again.  For the last two days she had been in no pain and had slept a good deal; her son’s presence still seemed to cheer her, and she often said how thankful she was to be surrounded on her death-bed by a family so happy, so God-fearing, so united, but now she began to wander, and, being more sensible of the approach of death, seemed also more alarmed at the thoughts of the Day of Judgment.

She ventured more than once or twice to return to the subject of her sins, and implored Theobald to make quite sure that they were forgiven her.  She hinted that she considered his professional reputation was at stake; it would never do for his own wife to fail in securing at any rate a pass.  This was touching Theobald on a tender spot; he winced and rejoined with an impatient toss of the head, “But, Christina, they are forgiven you”; and then he entrenched himself in a firm but dignified manner behind the Lord’s prayer.  When he rose he left the room, but called Ernest out to say that he could not wish it prolonged.

Joey was no more use in quieting his mother’s anxiety than Theobald had been—­indeed he was only Theobald and water; at last Ernest, who had not liked interfering, took the matter in hand, and, sitting beside her, let her pour out her grief to him without let or hindrance.

She said she knew she had not given up all for Christ’s sake; it was this that weighed upon her.  She had given up much, and had always tried to give up more year by year, still she knew very well that she had not been so spiritually minded as she ought to have been.  If she had, she should probably have been favoured with some direct vision or communication; whereas, though God had vouchsafed such direct and visible angelic visits to one of her dear children, yet she had had none such herself—­nor even had Theobald.