What could ever bring these two together again?  Could Hester herself—­ignorant of the strange mystery of Sylvia’s heart, as those who are guided solely by obedience to principle must ever be of the clue to the actions of those who are led by the passionate ebb and flow of impulse?  Could Hester herself?  Oh! how should she speak, how should she act, if Philip were near—­if Philip were sad and in miserable estate?  Her own misery at this contemplation of the case was too great to bear; and she sought her usual refuge in the thought of some text, some promise of Scripture, which should strengthen her faith.

‘With God all things are possible,’ said she, repeating the words as though to lull her anxiety to rest.

Yes; with God all things are possible.  But ofttimes He does his work with awful instruments.  There is a peacemaker whose name is Death.

CHAPTER XLV

SAVED AND LOST

Hester went out on the evening of the day after that on which the unknown owner of the half-crown had appointed to call for it again at William Darley’s.  She had schooled herself to believe that time and patience would serve her best.  Her plan was to obtain all the knowledge about Philip that she could in the first instance; and then, if circumstances allowed it, as in all probability they would, to let drop by drop of healing, peacemaking words and thoughts fall on Sylvia’s obdurate, unforgiving heart.  So Hester put on her things, and went out down towards the old quay-side on that evening after the shop was closed.

Poor little Sylvia!  She was unforgiving, but not obdurate to the full extent of what Hester believed.  Many a time since Philip went away had she unconsciously missed his protecting love; when folks spoke shortly to her, when Alice scolded her as one of the non-elect, when Hester’s gentle gravity had something of severity in it; when her own heart failed her as to whether her mother would have judged that she had done well, could that mother have known all, as possibly she did by this time.  Philip had never spoken otherwise than tenderly to her during the eighteen months of their married life, except on the two occasions before recorded:  once when she referred to her dream of Kinraid’s possible return, and once again on the evening of the day before her discovery of his concealment of the secret of Kinraid’s involuntary disappearance.

After she had learnt that Kinraid was married, her heart had still more strongly turned to Philip; she thought that he had judged rightly in what he had given as the excuse for his double dealing; she was even more indignant at Kinraid’s fickleness than she had any reason to be; and she began to learn the value of such enduring love as Philip’s had been—­lasting ever since the days when she first began to fancy what a man’s love for a woman should be, when she had first shrunk from the tone of tenderness he put into his especial term for her, a girl of twelve—­’Little lassie,’ as he was wont to call her.