“Um-hm. There you are! 'Most likely!' Well, I ain't satisfied with most likelys. I want to KNOW.”
“But—but—”
“Laban Keeler, until they find his body I shan't believe Albert's dead.”
“But, Rachel, you mustn't try to deceive yourself that way. Don't you see—”
“No, I don't see. Labe, when Robert Penfold was lost and gone for all them months all hands thought he was dead, didn't they? But he wasn't; he was on that island lost in the middle of all creation. What's to hinder Albert bein' took prisoner by those Germans? They came back to that cottage place after Albert was left there, the cap'n says so in that letter Cap'n Lote just read. What's to hinder their carryin' Al off with 'em? Eh? What's to hinder?”
“Why—why, nothin', I suppose, in one way. But nine chances out of ten—”
“That leaves one chance, don't it. I ain't goin' to give up that chance for—for my boy. I—I—Oh, Labe, I did think SO much of him.”
“I know, Rachel, I know. Don't cry any more than you can help. And if it helps you any to make believe—I mean to keep on hopin' he's alive somewheres—why, do it. It won't do any harm, I suppose. Only I wouldn't hint such a thing to Cap'n Lote or Olive.”
“Of course not,” indignantly. “I ain't quite a fool, I hope. . . . And I presume likely you're right, Laban. The poor boy is dead, probably. But I—I'm goin' to hope he isn't, anyhow, just to get what comfort I can from it. And Robert Penfold did come back, you know.”
For some time Laban found himself, against all reason, asking the very question Rachel had asked: Did they actually KNOW that Albert was dead? But as the months passed and no news came he ceased to ask it. Whenever he mentioned the subject to the housekeeper her invariable reply was: “But they haven't found his body, have they?” She would not give up that tenth chance. As she seemed to find some comfort in it he did not attempt to convince her of its futility.