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           Thesepeopletooktheirchances,theyfacedtheirdemonsandhungon.Hisdeathcertificatewouldsay"Croup."Itwasahandymalady.

           EventuallytherewasnothingleftforFatherRalphtoseeto.PaddyhadgonetoFee,Bobandtheboystothecarpentryshedtomakethelittlecoffin.StuartwasonthefloorinFee’sbedroom,hispureprofilesolikeherownsilhouettedagainstthenightskyoutsidethewindow;fromwhereshelayonherpillowwithPaddy’shandinhers,Feeneverlefthercontemplationofthedarkshapehuddledonthecoldfloor.Itwasfiveo’clockinthemorningandtheroosterswerestirringdrowsily,butitwouldbedarkforalongtimeyet.

           Purplestolearoundhisneckbecausehehadforgottenhewaswearingit,FatherRalphbenttothekitchenfireandbuiltitupfromembersintoablaze,turneddownthelamponthetablebehind,andsatonawoodenbenchoppositeMeggietowatchher.Shehadgrown,putonseven-leaguebootswhichthreatenedtoleavehimbehind,outstripped;hefelthisinadequacythenmorekeenly,watchingher,thaneverhehadinalifefilledwithagnawing,obsessivedoubtofhiscourage.Onlywhatwasheafraidof?Whatdidhethinkhecouldn’tfaceifitcame?Hecouldbestrongforotherpeople,hedidn’tfearotherpeople;butwithinhimself,expectingthatnamelesssomethingtocomeslidingintoconsciousnesswhenheleastexpectedit,heknewfear.WhileMeggie,borneighteenyearsafterhim,wasgrowingbeyondhim.

           Notthatshewasasaint,orindeedanythingmorethanmost.