When Aldous came in, Hallin smiled and lifted a feeble hand towards the park and the woods.
"Could it have greeted me more kindly," he said, in his whispering voice, "for the end?"
Aldous sat down beside him, pressing his hand, and there was silence till Hallin spoke again.
"You will keep this sitting-room, Aldous?"
"Always."
"I am glad. I have known you in it so long. What good talks we have had here in the old hot days! I was hot, at least, and you bore with me. Land Reform—Church Reform—Wages Reform—we have threshed them all out in this room. Do you remember that night I kept you up till it was too late to go to bed, talking over my Church plans? How full I was of it!—the Church that was to be the people—reflecting their life, their differences—governed by them—growing with them. You wouldn't join it, Aldous—our poor little Association!"
Aldous's strong lip quivered.
"Let me think of something I did join in," he said.
Hallin's look shone on him with a wonderful affection.
"Was there anything else you didn't help in? I don't remember it. I've dragged you into most things. You never minded failure. And I have not had so much of it—not till this last. This has been failure—absolute and complete."