Helen answered nothing; she only pressed gently the thin, trembling fingers which lay in her own.
“And if it was true,” said Lilias, “they were many, very many; would you have me hope that it was him—that he was saved alone?”
And then the wan face was lifted, supplicating, begging to be contradicted—instinct with its woeful entreaty that this hope which it called false might be pronounced true.
“Will you not speak to me!” said poor Lilias. “Have you nothing to say to me, Helen?”
“I cannot tell,” said the faltering voice of Helen. “I have heard of very wonderful things; this may be one of them. What can I say, Lilias? There have been such deliverances before—I cannot tell.”
Lilias rose up suddenly, and laid her arms upon Helen’s shoulders, supporting herself there.
“He is the only son of his mother. She would pray for him night and day. Helen, Helen, there are few so blessed. Would they not be heard in heaven, those prayers?”
Poor Helen trembled as much in her strength as the other did in her weakness; she dared not recommend this hope to the sick heart, which had already grasped it so strongly.
“We must wait, Lilias,” she said. “It is very hard, very hard to do it, I know, but it is in God’s hands, and we must wait.”
Lilias put up her hands to her head; she staggered as she withdrew from her support. A sickly smile came upon her face.