, with a laugh, "I didn't want you to know.
If I could have done without you, I should not have told you now."

And at this there came a light into my mother's face that never
altogether left it until the end.

She drew him down beside her on the seat. I had come nearer; and my
father, stretching out his hand, would have had me with them. But my
mother, putting her arms about him, held him close to her, as though in
that moment she would have had him to herself alone.

CHAPTER VIII.

HOW THE MAN IN GREY MADE READY FOR HIS GOING.

The eighteen months that followed--for the end came sooner than we had
expected--were, I think, the happiest days my father and mother had ever
known; or if happy be not altogether the right word, let me say the most
beautiful, and most nearly perfect. To them it was as though God in
His sweet thoughtfulness had sent death to knock lightly at the door,
saying: "Not yet. You have still a little longer to be together. In a
little while." In those last days all things false and meaningless they
laid aside. Nothing was of real importance to them but that they should
love each other, comforting each other, learning to understand each
other. Again we lived poorly; but there was now no pitiful straining
to keep up appearances, no haunting terror of what the neighbours
might think. The petty cares and worries concerning matters not worth
a moment's thought, the mean desires and fears with which we disfigure
ourselves, fell from them. There came to them broader thought, a wider
charity, a deeper pity. Their love grew greater even than their needs,
overflowing towards at things. Sometimes, recalling these months, it
has seemed to me that we make a mistake seeking to keep Death, God's
go-between, ever from our thoughts. Is it not closing the door to a
friend who would help us would we let him (for who knows life so well),
whispering to us: "In a little while. Only a little longer that you have
to be together. Is it worth taking so much thought for self? Is it worth
while being unkind?"

From them a graciousness emanated pervading all around. Even my aunt Fan
decided for the second time in her career to give amiability a trial.
This intention she announced publicly to my mother and myself one
afternoon soon after our return from Devonshire.

"I'm a beast of an old woman," said my aunt, suddenly.

"Don't say that, Fan," urged my mother.

"What's the good of saying 'Don't say it' when I've just