At that moment the engines arrived, but Rachel stood dazed and unconscious of what was going on around her. She did not move or speak even when the women gathered about her, neither did she hear their words of sympathy and commiseration.
"You'd better go, my dear," said an old woman with tears streaming down her face, "you'd better go. It don't do any good to him or to you to stay. If your husband, God bless him, has gone to glory why he's with the Lord, and if not they'll bring him safe home to you."
"To think," cried a hard-faced woman, "that he's done it to save a drunkard's baby, that's already half starved to death. He'd have done better to leave it alone."
The old woman turned sharply at the words.
"That baby, I take it, is as dear as the rest of us to the Lord. But come, my dear," she said again, addressing Rachel, "go home, I beg of you. You'd be best at home. And the Lord be with you."
But Rachel did not stir till a touch on her arm suddenly aroused her. She looked round and met the eyes full of anguish of Luke's mother. No words were spoken, but the silent cry found its way at once to Rachel's heart and awoke her from her dazed condition.
"Mother!" she said softly, then taking her arm in hers she slowly moved away. No words were spoken, as they mounted the hill. The only sounds were Gwen's sobs as she followed behind them.
On arriving at the house they made their way automatically into Luke's study and sat down silently together on the sofa—the two women who loved Luke—clinging to one another, and listening for that sound of all sounds, which strikes a chill into the bravest heart.
