"Yes."
Again Uniacke thought of the doctor's advice.
"Sir Graham," he said, speaking with obvious hesitation, "I—I would not work."
"Why?"
"You are not fit to bear any fatigue at present. Creation will inevitably retard your recovery."
"I am not ill in body, and work is the only panacea for a burdened mind. If it cannot bring me happiness, at least—"
"Happiness!" Uniacke interrupted. "And what may not bring that! Why, Sir Graham, even death—should that be regarded as a curse? May not death bring the greatest happiness of all?"
The painter's forehead contracted, but the clergyman continued with gathering eagerness and fervour:
"Often when I pray beside a little dead child, or—or a young lad, and hear the mother weeping, I feel more keenly than at any other time the fact that blessings descend upon the earth. The child is taken in innocence. The lad is bereft of the power to sin. And their souls are surely at peace."
"At peace," said the painter heavily. "Yes, that is something. But the mother—the mother weeps, you say."