They were standing by the bedside. His mother had been up to the great house and had brought back with her a fine wreath of white flowers. They lay upon the sheet just over his breast. Anthony hardly knew his father; the weak, twitching lips were closed and formed a firm, strong line. Apart from the mouth his face had always been beautiful; though, lined with fret and worry and the fair hair grimy and uncombed, few had ever noticed it. His mother stooped and kissed the high pale brow.
"He is like what I remember him at the beginning," she said. "You can see that he was a gentleman, every inch of him."
His mother looked younger standing there beside her dead man. A softness had come into her face.
"You did your best, my dear," she said, "and I guess I wasn't much help to you."
Everybody spoke well of the white, handsome man who lay with closed eyes and folded hands as if saying his prayers. Anthony had no idea that his father had been so universally liked and respected.
"Was father any relation to Mr. Selwyn?" he asked his mother the evening of the funeral.
