“He said he would go, mother.”
“My dear boy—if any one can find him he will. How did he bear the terrible news? Gwladys. I had no time to ask you before.”
“I can hardly tell you, mother. He said scarcely anything—he seemed greatly troubled on Owen’s account.”
“Ah! dear fellow—the most unselfish fellow in the world; and how Owen does love him. You are sure he has gone to look for him?”
“Dear mother, did you not hear him say so?”
“Yes, yes—well. God give me patience.”
Another restless movement from mother, then a couple of hours’ silence. At two o’clock she got up and made down the fire, then went to the window and looked out, opened her lips to speak to me—I saw the movement; restrained herself, and sat down again. The clock struck three. A slight sound of a passing footfall outside, an eager clasping of mother’s hands. The footfall passed—all was stillness. Mother rose again, poured out a glass of sherry, drank it off, filled out another, and brought it to my side. I, too, drank the wine without a comment. Mother returned to her seat, and I went to sleep.
The clock was striking six when I awoke. The window-shutters were open; the place was full of bright sunshine and daylight. I was awakened by mother standing over me. She was trembling and half crying.
“Oh! Gwladys—oh! my darling, they have never come home—the whole night has gone, and they have never appeared. Oh! I am so dreadfully frightened. Yes, Gwladys, though I am not a religious woman, yet I must go to God; I must get God to help me. Come with me, my daughter.”
Together we went down on our knees. I clasped mother’s hands. We neither of us spoke.