“Mother! Mother!” shouted little George, as he overheard her. Oliver leaped up the stairs, and inquired whether there was a boat,—whether mother was coming.
“No, Oliver, no. I was only thinking about mother; and so, I suppose, was George. I am afraid you are disappointed;—I am sorry.”
Oliver bit his lip to prevent crying, and could not speak directly; but seemed to be gazing carefully all around the waste. He said, at last, that he had many times thought that his mother might come in a boat: and he thought she might still, unless...
“Unless she should be an angel now,” whispered Mildred,—“unless she died yesterday; and then she might be with us now, at this very moment, though we cannot see her;—might not she?”
“Yes, I believe so, dear. And, for one thing, I almost wish she may not come in a boat. Who should tell her that father was carried away into all those waters, without having spoken one word to us?”
“If they are both dead, do you not think they are together now?” asked Mildred.
“Certainly. Pastor Dendel says that all who love one another well enough will live together, where they will never die any more.”
“And I am sure they did,” said Mildred.
“If they see us now,” said Oliver, “it must make a great difference to them whether we are frightened and miserable, or whether we behave as we ought to do. Let us try not to be frightened, for their sakes, dear.”
“And if they are not with us all the while, God is,” whispered Mildred.