Then the two men looked at each other in silence. William had little difficulty in guessing what was passing through Ralph's mind.
"If I were in his place," he reflected, "what should I be thinking? Should I like my mother to be put into a parish coffin and buried in a pauper's grave?"
"You'd like your mother and father to sleep together?" he questioned.
Ralph's lips trembled, but he did not speak.
"The world's been terribly rough on you," William went on, "but you'll come into your own maybe by and by."
"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."
"And now that she's asleep, you'll want her to rest with your father."
"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.
And when the grave had been filled in, the crowd still lingered and talked to each other of the brave and patient souls whose only legacy to their children was the heritage of an untarnished name.
Some people said it was a stroke of good luck, others that it was an exhibition of native genius, others still that it was the result of having a good education, and a few that it was just a dispensation of Providence, and nothing else. But whether luck or genius, Providence or education, all were agreed that Ralph Penlogan had struck a vein which, barring accidents, would lead him on to fortune.
For six months he had worked on the "floors" of St. Ivel Mine, and earned fourteen shillings a week thereat; but as a friendly miner and his wife boarded and lodged him for eight shillings a week, he did not do badly. His savings, if not large, were regular. Most months he laid by a pound, and felt that he had taken the first step on the road to independence, if not to fortune.