“Dear mother, if you did, you would treat me like what I am not. I can never be a child again, after to-day.”
“I am glad of that—two women can comfort one another.”
“Dear mother,” I said, kissing her again.
“Gwladys,” catching my hand, nervously, “I have had an awful day. I have still the worst conjectures. I don’t believe we are half through this trouble.”
“Dear mother, let us hope so—let us pray to God that it may be so.”
“Oh! my dear child, I was never a very religious woman. I never was, really. I have obeyed the forms, but I think now, I believe now that I know little of the power. I don’t feel as if I could come to God the moment I am in trouble. If I were like Gwen it would be different—I wish you could have heard her quoting texts all day long—but I am not like her. I am not,” an emphatic shake of her head. “I am not a religious woman.”
“And, mother,” my words coming out slowly, “I am not religious either. I have no past to go to God with. Still it seems to me that I want God awfully to-night.”
“Oh! my child,” breaking down, and beginning to sob pitifully. “I don’t; I only want Owen. Oh I suppose Owen never comes back to me.”
“But, mother, that is very unlikely.”
“I don’t know, Gwladys. You did not see his face when that terrible news was broken to him this morning. He never spoke to me—he just got ghastly, and rushed away without a single word; and he has never been back all day—never once; though that boy—young Thomas, has been asking, asking for him. He said he had promised to go down into the mine. I could not stop the boy, or put him off—so unfeeling, after all that has happened. But why is Owen away? It is dreadful—the sudden death of the dear little baby. But I never knew Owen cared so much for him; he only saw him once or twice.”