Sir Wilfrid Wynne gave his verdict, and it was almost a repetition of what Dr. Burton had said. He could do nothing. There was little hope he would regain consciousness. If he did, it would be but a passing flash before the end. He might linger in his present condition twenty-four hours or longer; and he might pass away any moment without a struggle. It would be cruel to wish him to live; the shock to the spine had been so great, if he lived, he would inevitably lose the use of his lower limbs. Sir Wilfrid was grieved; he had known the boy’s father. He would gladly have remained, had there been any hope of doing anything for him. He took his departure by motor-car to catch the mail train at a junction ten miles distant. Mrs. Mandeville returned to her place by the bedside, calm and still, after her paroxysm of weeping. Colonel Mandeville was with her, and presently the Rector came into the room. "Raymond, pray for him," Mrs. Mandeville said. "He is in God’s hands. No human power can help him." They all knelt and the Rector prayed aloud. He did not petition for the boy’s life to be spared. He humbly asked that the hearts of those who loved him might be submissive to God’s all-wise decree. "Thy will be done," was the dominant note of the prayer. When they rose from their knees, there was an expression on Mrs. Mandeville’s face which no one had ever seen before. The prayer had not helped her: it was not submission nor resignation in any degree which had come to her. She turned to the Rector. "I do not believe it, Raymond. This is _not_ God’s will. God could not order anything so cruel to befall a child, so loving and dutiful--whose faith in God’s loving care of him has always been so beautiful to me to witness. Could I, who know only human love, suffer anything like this to befall my little Rosebud, or any of my children? Is human love more pitiful and compassionate than divine love? This dear boy could easily have saved himself; he stood between the cruel beast and my little girls. All three of them might be lying as he is lying now but for his self-sacrifice. Don’t tell me it is God’s will! If I could believe it, I would wish I were a heathen, and worshipped a god of wood and stone!" The Rector could only gaze in pained astonishment. Such an outburst was so unlike his usually calm and gentle sister. He judged she was beside herself with grief. She stood with clasped hands, wide-open eyes, unseeing, yet seeing, gazing beyond the confines of that room, catching a momentary vision of that light which ’never was, on land or sea.’ She became calm again--serenely calm.