For a few moments I doubted whether I should tell Wynnie, for I could not know with any certainty that Percivale was in the schooner. But presently I recalled former conclusions to the effect that we have no right to modify God’s facts for fear of what may be to come. A little hope founded on a present appearance, even if that hope should never be realised, may be the very means of enabling a soul to bear the weight of a sorrow past the point at which it would otherwise break down. I would therefore tell Wynnie, and let her share my expectation of deliverance. I think she had been half-asleep, for when I entered her room she started up in a sitting posture, looking wild, and putting her hands to her head. “I have brought you good news, Wynnie,” I said. “I have been out on the downs, and there is light enough now to see that the little schooner is quite safe.” “What schooner?” she asked listlessly, and lay down again, her eyes still staring, awfully unappeased. “Why the schooner they say Percivale got on board.” “He isn’t drowned then!” she cried with a choking voice, and put her hands to her face and burst into tears and sobs. “Wynnie,” I said, “look what your faithlessness brings upon you. Everybody but you has known all night that Percivale and Joe Harper are probably quite safe. They may be ashore in a couple of hours.” “But you don’t know it. He may be drowned yet.” “Of course there is room for doubt, but none for despair. See what a poor helpless creature hopelessness makes you.” “But how can I help it, papa?” she asked piteously. “I am made so.” But as she spoke the dawn was clear upon the height of her forehead. “You are not made yet, as I am always telling you; and God has ordained that you shall have a hand in your own making. You have to consent, to desire that what you know for a fault shall be set right by his loving will and spirit.” “I don’t know God, papa.” “Ah, my dear, that is where it all lies. You do not know him, or you would never be without hope.” “But what am I to do to know him!” she asked, rising on her elbow. The saving power of hope was already working in her. She was once more turning her face towards the Life. “Read as you have never read before about Christ Jesus, my love. Read with the express object of finding out what God is like, that you may know him and may trust him. And now give yourself to him, and he will give you sleep.” “What are we to do,” I said to my wife, “if Percivale continue silent? For even if he be in love with her, I doubt if he will speak.” “We must leave all that, Harry,” she answered. She was turning on myself the counsel I had been giving Wynnie. It is strange how easily we can tell our brother what he ought to do, and yet, when the case comes to be our own, do precisely as we had rebuked him for doing. I lay down and fell fast asleep. CHAPTER IX. THE FUNERAL.