From that hour a new feeling took possession of little Jack. If his father had forgotten him, it was very likely the mother was also forgotten. Mummy must feel lonely too, but he would not forget her, and when he was a man he would work for her. He would be her champion and defender—not that he used these words to himself, they were rather too long for him, but the idea they expressed was in his brave, loyal little heart. Nanna often wondered at the quaint little ways in which he showed himself his mother's protector, but never knew the heart-sorrow which had given birth to them.
The child's grief was an added weight to the mother's heart. She saw that her burden was no longer one which she had to bear alone, but that her child, her innocent, sunny-haired child, with the face of an angel, and brother to an angel, had to feel some of its weight also.
Away in Holland a gardener will patiently labour for even twenty years to bring one hyacinth to perfection. Its soil is often changed, and the hand, though moved by a heart which dearly loves the flower, does not hesitate to even use the knife to the sensitive root.
With still greater patience bends the Great Gardener over the flowers of the Kingdom.
And still there was no letter from Ralph. She had left off writing now, not knowing into whose hands her letters might fall. At last she ventured to write to Stephen Collins, asking if he thought there was anything more she could do. He at once replied that he was scanning several Australian papers every week, but had not come across any mention of Ralph, and that he could think of nothing further she could do. It did not seem to him to be at all necessary to seek police aid, though he did not say so in his note. Later on, he sent word that he had written to the proprietor of the hotel to which her letters had been addressed, and he had replied that for a long time six letters had been waiting for Mr. Waring, but a little while ago Mr. Waring had sent a messenger for them. Should that same messenger call again he would do his best to obtain Mr. Waring's address.
This gave Phebe courage to write again, but after some months the hotel proprietor returned the letter, saying that nothing had been heard of Mr. Waring, but that if at any time he did receive news of him it should be forwarded instantly.
After that all was a dark blank. Years passed, but not the faintest report of his doings was ever received. "Do you think he is dead, Nanna?" Phebe would often ask, but the old friend could only shake her head and say, "Dear heart, I do not know, but he's somewhere where the Lord knows all about him. We must rest on that."