He remembered the Chestnut Ridge schoolhouse, filled after a mine explosion with weeping women and children; he recalled his father's prayers, their prayers. Even he had prayed and had been comforted!
The memory of boyhood became detailed; he was suddenly in the midst of an almost fatal experience. He had gone to swim in a deep mine hole and had become exhausted. Hanging over the edge of the bank was a branch of an old tree, and he had reached for it desperately without any expectation that it would sustain him, but it had proved firm and he had drawn himself slowly but safely out of the black water. He remembered the rough bark against his bare, shivering body, the heavenly consciousness of safety. He felt now a similar security, but it was of the soul.
On the seventh day Mayne came to visit him. He did not know exactly where to look, and with recourse to a physician's gesture, he laid his hand on Stephen's wrist. He glanced meaningly at the nurse, and she, returning his gaze with an understanding nod, departed.
"I have sad news for you, my boy," he said solemnly.
In a flash Stephen saw himself walking through carpeted corridors following the back of a Prince Albert coat.
"Well?"
"Hilda has passed on."
"When?"
"A week ago."