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AFTERWARDS. [Chap. VIII. 



shining forth in constant self-denying labours of love, and in 

 cheering sweetness of social intercourse ! Of him (more I 

 think than of any one I ever knew) it might strictly be said, he 

 was 6 always abounding in the work of the Lord.' " 



His nephew Estlin wrote (May 26, 1877): "Never was 

 any one, I suppose, a more unwearied worker : never one who 

 cared less for the common issues of work in repute, or ease, 

 or wealth : never one who toiled more unreservedly for the 

 work itself, whether religious or educational, social or scientific. 

 ... I knew him too short a time to learn the full depths of 

 his nature, the full power of his spirit ; but from the time that 

 I first stayed at his house at Warrington, as a boy of nine or 

 ten years old, I felt the spell of his intense earnestness, and 

 the absolute sincerity of his religious utterance. He seemed 

 to me like the good soldier who had trained himself by severe 

 discipline to endure hardness : he minded not how rrluch or 

 how long : and if he was sometimes impatient that others did 

 not bear it equally willingly, it was a sign of a noble ardour, 

 which would not tolerate what he conceived to be falsehood or 

 selfishness. . . . There is nothing more wonderful than the 

 manner in which the unseen world becomes real to us, when 

 some one deeply loved passes into it. That noble earnestness 

 and devotion are not extinguished : they find their fitting place, 

 their work, their objects in another life : and there, perhaps, 

 they prepare a place for us." 



Into that unseen world another whose heart was full of love 

 was about to enter. Soon after Philip's removal, I spent a few 

 days with Mary at Red Lodge House. She had written to his 

 wife that it should be her care to make his works known : while 

 preparing these Memoirs I have had the support of her silent 

 sympathy. His long absence from our sight helped us to think 

 less of the exhausted body than of the living spirit. After I 

 left her, came the details of his last illness and of the funeral 

 rites, which, she said, " seemed to carry me back from the 

 serene state in which I had "begun to regard him." Three 

 weeks from his death — Thursday, 'June 14, 1877— she closed a 

 day of active duty with the cheerful Good Night, and entered 



