free hours? That night had not been cold—but Wednesday night had. And she shuddered as she recalled Tuesday night, when a bitter autumnal windstorm had raged till dawn, with showers of hail and stinging rain. Had he been out in that—the poor lost baby?
“Oh, I can’t bear it!” she moaned.
“It’s dreadful,” agreed Ilse, looking rather sick, “but we can’t do anything. There’s no use in thinking of it. Oh”—suddenly Ilse stamped her foot—“I believe Father used to be right when he didn’t believe in God. Such a hideous thing as this—how could it happen if there is a God—a decent God, anyway?”
“God hadn’t anything to do with this,” said Emily.
“You know the Power that made last night couldn’t have brought about this monstrous thing.”
“Well, He didn’t prevent it,” retorted Ilse—who was suffering so keenly that she wanted to arraign the universe at the bar of her pain.
“Little Allan Bradshaw may be found yet—he must be,” exclaimed Emily.
“He won't be found alive,” stormed Ilse. “No, don’t talk to me about God. And don’t talk to me of this. I’ve got to forget it—I’ll go crazy if I don’t.”
Ilse put the matter out of her mind with another stamp of her foot and Emily tried to. She could not quite succeed but she forced herself to concentrate superficially on the business of the day, though she knew the horror lurked in the back of her consciousness. Only once did she really forget it—when they came around a point on the Malvern River Road and saw a little house built in the cup of a tiny bay, with a steep grassy hill rising behind it. Scattered over the hill were solitary, beautifully shaped young fir-trees like little green, elongated pyramids. No other house was in sight. All about it was a lovely autumnal solitude of grey, swift-running, windy river, and red, spruce-fringed points.
“That house belongs to me,” said Emily.
Ilse stared.
