"I took occasion to tell him that all Margery's children was well provided for—not so mine."
"I don't like this," said Mrs. Huxam. "To be doubtful about your children's welfare is next thing to being godless, Jeremy. You're talking in a very loose sort of way, and to speak, or think, of your uncle's money is indecent."
"Then I'm sorry I so far forgot myself as to do so," he answered at once. "It wasn't for myself; and I'm well able and very willing to look after my own. But there's a cloud. I don't mean Teddy, who will never have the full use of his legs and be a care all his life. He came from God like that, and I can face him according and labour double tides for him if needs must; but I mean a passing thing, though very serious I'm afraid."
"What is it then?"
Again he evaded the great matter and dallied.
"I'll tell you, of course, mother. I'm not a man to run away from trouble. It came over me, strangely enough, in the churchyard, where I went on Sunday afternoon with my sons past Margery's grave. And I properly hate that stone Bullstone has stuck there. It oughtn't to be allowed. And he's set wild plants upon it—just moor weeds. Father's greatly vexed, as well he may be."
"What does it matter? It's a weakness of the weak to garden on graves and fidget over the dust of the dead. Let it go."
"Very different to my brother's grave—so dignified and all that. The face wants a wash: it's gone green, and next Saturday I'll go up and rub it."
Mrs. Huxam had set words from the Wisdom of Solomon on the tomb of her dead son and Jeremy brought them to her mind. She looked back through the years, saw again the sturdy boy, who had died doing his duty, and quoted:
"'He being made perfect, in a short time fulfilled a long time: For his soul pleased the Lord; therefore hasted He to take him away from among the wicked.'"