Broken words formed
themselves at last among Evelyn's sobs. "It was wicked," she sobbed, "it
was cruel--they were so happy."
Mrs. Thornbury patted her on the shoulder.
"It seems hard--very hard," she said. She paused and looked out over the
slope of the hill at the Ambroses' villa; the windows were blazing in
the sun, and she thought how the soul of the dead had passed from those
windows. Something had passed from the world. It seemed to her strangely
empty.
"And yet the older one grows," she continued, her eyes regaining more
than their usual brightness, "the more certain one becomes that there is
a reason. How could one go on if there were no reason?" she asked.
She asked the question of some one, but she did not ask it of Evelyn.
Evelyn's sobs were becoming quieter. "There must be a reason," she said.
"It can't only be an accident. For it was an accident--it need never
have happened."
Mrs. Thornbury sighed deeply.
"But we must not let ourselves think of that," she added, "and let us
hope that they don't either. Whatever they had done it might have been
the same. These terrible illnesses--"
"There's no reason--I don't believe there's any reason at all!" Evelyn
broke out, pulling the blind down and letting it fly back with a little
snap.
"Why should these things happen? Why should people suffer? I honestly
believe," she went on, lowering her voice slightly, "that Rachel's in
Heaven, but Terence.
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