"David," I said, "do you love God better than any one?"
The agitation in my voice must have penetrated to David's heart at once;
he turned round and looked at me.
"I _do_ love Him better than any one, Gwladys; but why do you ask?"
"You would never be angry with God whatever He did?" I said, again.
"Angry? no, no; what a strange question."
"I have a reason for asking it," I said.
"Gwladys, you have been keeping something from me; what is the matter,
what is wrong?"
David was excited now, he took my hand in his with a grasp which
unconsciously was fierce.
"There is something wrong," I whispered.
"Something you have been keeping from me?"
"Yes."
"All day?"
"Yes."
"How dared--" checking himself--remaining silent for a second, then
speaking with enforced composure.
"Tell it to me, my dear."
But I had given way, I was down on the grass, my face hidden, my sobs
rending me.
"Is anything wrong with the mother? Gwladys."
"No, no, she is well."
"Or Owen?"
"No."
"The mine is all safe, there has been no accident?"
"The mine is safe."
A long pause, I was sobbing, David was breathing hard.
"It isn't, oh! my God, there is nothing wrong with the little lad?"
"It is him."
"Not dead."
"He is dead."
I raised my head now to look at David. David put out his hand to ward
me back.
"Don't speak to me," he said, "don't tell me anything more about it yet.
I must be alone for a little, wait here for me."
He disappeared out of the doorway, he did not return for two hours;
during those two hours I prayed without ceasing for him.