There was silence in the small glade. The evening shadows stretched long. Oh dear God, Starbuck thought, but I am not worthy, not nearly worthy. God will not listen to me, a sinner, yet are we not all sinners? And the truth, surely, was that God had already heard Thomas Truslow’s prayer, for Truslow’s anguish was more eloquent than any litany that Starbuck’s education could provide. Yet Thomas Truslow needed the comfort of ritual, of old words lovingly said, and Starbuck gripped the book tight, closed his eyes and raised his face toward the dusk-shadowed blossoms, but suddenly he felt a fool and an imposter and no words would come. He opened his mouth, but he could not speak.

“That’s right,” Truslow said, “take your time.”

Starbuck tried to think of a passage of scripture that would give him a start. His throat was dry. He opened his eyes and suddenly a verse came to him. “Man that is born of a woman,” he began, but his voice was scratchy and uncertain so he began again, “Man that is born of a woman is of few days, and full of trouble.”

“Amen,” Thomas Truslow said, “amen to that.”

“He cometh forth like a flower…”

“She was, she was, praise God, she was.”

“And is cut down.”

“The Lord took her, the Lord took her.” Truslow, his eyes closed, rocked back and forth as he tried to summon all his intensity.

“He fleeth also as a shadow, and continueth not.”

“God help us sinners,” Truslow said, “God help us.”

Starbuck was suddenly dumb. He had quoted the first two verses of the fourteenth chapter of Job, and suddenly he was remembering the fourth verse, which asked who can bring a clean thing from an unclean? Then gave its hard answer, no one. And surely Truslow’s unsanctified household had been unclean?

“Pray, Mister, pray,” Truslow pleaded.

“Oh Lord God”—Starbuck clenched his eyes against the sun’s dying light—“remember Emily who was thy servant, thy handmaid, and who was snatched from this world into thy greater glory.”

“She was, she was!” Truslow almost wailed the confirmation.

“Remember Emily Truslow—” Starbuck went on lamely.

“Mallory,” Truslow interrupted, “that was her proper name, Emily Marjory Mallory. And shouldn’t we kneel?” He snatched off his hat and dropped onto the soft loamy soil.