It was the sons who could not bear it. Fred Brangwen went about with a set, blanched face and shut hands, his heart full of hatred and rage for what had been done to his father, bleeding also with desire to have his father again, to see him, to hear him again. He could not bear it.

Tom Brangwen only arrived on the day of the funeral. He was quiet and controlled as ever. He kissed his mother, who was still dark-faced, inscrutable, he shook hands with his brother without looking at him, he saw the great coffin with its black handles.

He even read the name-plate, “Tom Brangwen, of the Marsh Farm. Born — — . Died — — .”

The good-looking, still face of the young man crinkled up for a moment in a terrible grimace, then