"I shall never get father and mother back again," Ralph answered chokingly.
"We oughtn't to want them back again," William said; "they're better off."
"I wish I was better off in the same way," Ralph answered, with a rush of tears to his eyes.
"She held on, you see, till you came back to her," William said, after a long pause; "then, when she got her heart's desire, she let go."
"Dear old mother!"
"And now that she's asleep, you'll want her to rest with your father."
"But I've no money."
"I'll be your banker as long as you like. Charge you interest on the money, if you'll feel easier in your mind. Only don't let the money question trouble you just now."
Ralph grasped William's hand in silence. Of all the people he had known in St. Goram, this comparative stranger was his truest friend and neighbour.
So it came to pass that Mary Penlogan had such a funeral as she herself would have chosen, and in the grave of her husband her children laid her to rest. People came from far and near to pay their last tribute of respect. Even Sir John Hamblyn sent his steward to represent him. He was too conscience-stricken to come himself.