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 he said, presently. "God knows I would if I could."

"And I'm sure of it, sir," said Elisabeth. "But it's no good. Nothing can help me—nothing. If I could only be satisfied—if I only knew that my poor boy was dead, I think I could rest, but I don't know it, and, oh, Mr. Hepworth, the feeling is a terrible one."

"Yes," he answered. "I think I know what you feel, Elisabeth. But—"

He paused unable to say more. He had been about to tell her to have faith in God that all would come right. Half-an-hour previously he would have used the conventional words with glib ease, never doubting them, but something in the story which she had told him made him desist. He found himself in some respects sharing Elisabeth's wondering doubt. Why were these things allowed? Why was wickedness permitted to work against the peace and well-being of the innocent? Why did the wicked man flourish as a green-bay tree, while the guiltless worked