and saw his drooping boy's figure, and, beyond, Piers's brown hand lying on his knee. A fist! Surreptitiously his eyes slid to Piers's face, sunburnt, full-chinned, with strong, short nose. Of what was he thinking? Of his proximity? Of Pheasant? Of Gran lying there at the chancel steps?
"My heart was hot within me, and while I was thus musing the fire kindled. . . ."
He became conscious of the voice from the chancel, resonant, mournful:
"Behold, thou hast made my days as it were a span long: and mine age is even as nothing in respect of thee. . . ."
Poor old Gran! How she would resent that! He could fancy her exclaiming: "Not a bit of it! I won't have it!"
The voice swept on:
"O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen."
Good poetry David wrote! And he had known life—not bridled himself! Lovely fragments came, clear as crystal:
". . . seeing that is past as a watch in the night . . . and fade away suddenly like the grass. In the morning it is green, and groweth up: but in the evening it is cut down, dried up, and withered."
Ah, well, he was only twenty-six. He had seen and experienced a good deal, and would experience a deal more. Write poetry that would be remembered—for a day, at any rate. He was almost well. The desire to write surged up in him. He became wrapped in contemplation of his own personality. He forgot to rise when a hymn was sung until Renny touched him on the arm, then he rose hesitatingly to his feet. So long since he had been to church. . . .
He wondered whether anyone in heaven or on earth
