“Yes, I know how you feel.”

“I can’t bear to think of it yet.  I didn’t come to talk about him, or myself.  I came to talk about Abel.”

“I can’t tell you anything about him.”

“I know you know nothing.  I think I know more than you do.”

“Know more of him than I do?” asked the mother.  There was almost a flash of jealousy in her voice.  But it faded and she sighed.

“No, no.  You needn’t fret for him.  They may find him, or they may not; but they’ll not find him alive.”

Estelle started.  She believed most steadfastly that Abel was alive, and felt very certain that she knew his hiding-place.

“Why do you think that?” she asked.  “You might hope it; but why do you think it?  Have you any good reason for thinking it?”

“There are some things you know,” answered the mother.  “You know them without being told and without any reason.  You neither hope nor fear—­you know.  I might ask you how you know where he is.  But I don’t want to ask you.  I’ve taken my good-bye of him, poor, wasted life.  How had God got the heart to let him live for this?  People will say it was fitting, and happened by the plan of his Maker.  No man’s child—­not even God’s.  It’s all hidden, all dark to me.  It’s worked itself out to the bitter end.  Men would have been too kind to work it out like this.  Only God could.  I can’t say much to you.  I’m very sorry for you.  You were caught up into the thing and didn’t know, or guess, what you were thrusting yourself into.  But now it’s your turn, and you’ll have to wait long years, as I did, before you can look at life again without passion or sorrow.”

“It doesn’t matter about me.  But, if you feel Abel is dead, I feel just as strongly that he is alive, and that this isn’t the end of him.”

Sabina considered.

“I know him better than you, and I know Providence better than you do,” she answered.  “It’s like the wonder you are—­to think on him without hate.  But you’re wasting your time and showing pity for nothing.  He’s beyond pity.  Why, I don’t pity him—­his mother.”

“I’m only doing what Raymond tried to do so often and failed—­what he would have me do now if he’d lived.  And if I know something that nobody else does, I must use that knowledge.  I’m sorry I do know, Sabina, but I do.”

“You waste your time, I expect.  If the hunt that’s going on doesn’t find him, how shall you do it?  He’s at the bottom of the sea, I hope.”

They parted and the same night Estelle set out to satisfy her will.  She told nobody of her purpose, for she knew that her father would not have allowed her to pursue it.  Waldron was utterly crushed by the death of his friend and could not as yet realise the loss.

Nor did Estelle realise it, save in fitful and fleeting agonies.  As yet the full significance of the event was by no means weighed by her.  It meant far more than she could measure and receive and accept in so brief a space of time.  Seen from the standpoint of this death, every plan of her life, every undertaking for the future, was dislocated.  She left that complete ruin for the present.  There was no hurry to restore, or set about rebuilding the fabric of her future.  She would have all her life to do it in.