thing in short
frocks, and Henry so proud of him. Now Henry is dead, and Raymond
wife-old and in Parliament. A sound Liberal, like his father before
him."

"The election isn't till next year. But I hope he'll get in. They say at
Bridport he has a very good chance."

The day before he died, Mr. Churchouse seemed better and talked to
Estelle of another visit from her father.

"I always esteem his great good humour and fine British instinct to live
and let live. That is where our secret lies. We ride Empire with such a
loose rein, Estelle--the only way. You cannot dare to put a curb on
proud people. A paradox that--that those who fast bind don't fast find.
The instinct of England's greatness is in your father; he is an epitome
of our virtues. He has no imagination, however. Nor has England. If she
had, doubtless she would not do the great deeds that beggar imagination.
That reminds me. There is one little gift that you must have from my own
hand. A work of imagination--a work of art. Nobody in the world would
care about it but you. A poem, in fact. I have written one or two
others, but I tore them up. I sent them to newspapers, hoping to
astonish you with them; but when they were rejected I destroyed them.
This poem I did not send. Nobody has seen it but myself. Now I give it
to you, and I want you to read it aloud to me, that I may hear how it
sounds."

"How clever of you! There's nothing you can't do. I know I shall love
it."

He pointed to a sheaf of papers on a table.

"The top one. It is a mournful subject, yet I hope treated cheerfully. I
wrote it before death was in sight; but I feel no more alarmed or
concerned about death now than I did then. You may think it is too
simple. But simplicity, though boring to the complex mind, is really
quite worth while. The childlike spirit--there is much to be said for
it. No doubt I have missed a great deal by limiting my interests; but I
have gained too--in directness."

"There is a greatness about simplicity," she said.

"To be simple in my life and subtle in my thought was my ambition at one
time; but I never could rise to subtlety. The native bent was against
it. The poem--I do not err in calling it a poem--is called
'Afterwards'--unless you can think of a better title. If any obvious and
glaring faults strike you, tell me. No doubt there are many."

She read the two pages written in his little, careful and almost
feminine hand.

"When I am dead, the storm and s