"
"Is it a kind of religion?" Dart
asked, having a vague memory of
rumors of fantastic new theories and
half-born beliefs which had seemed
to him weird visions floating through
fagged brains wearied by old doubts
and arguments and failures. The
world was tired--the whole earth
was sad--centuries had wrought
only to the end of this twentieth
century's despair. Was the struggle
waking even here--in this back
water of the huge city's human tide?
he wondered with dull interest.
"Is it a kind of religion?" he said.
"It 's cheerfler." Glad thrust out
her sharp chin uncertainly again.
"There 's no 'ell fire in it. An'
there ain't no blime laid on
Godamighty." (The word as she uttered
it seemed to have no connection
whatever with her usual colloquial
invocation of the Deity.) "When
a dray run over little Billy an' crushed
'im inter a rag, an' 'is mother was
screamin' an' draggin' 'er 'air down,
the curick 'e ses, `It 's Gawd's will,'
'e ses--an' 'e ain't no bad sort
neither, an' 'is fice was white an' wet
with sweat--`Gawd done it,' 'e ses.
An' me, I'd nussed the child an' I
clawed me 'air sime as if I was 'is
mother an' I screamed out, `Then
damn 'im!' An' the curick 'e
dropped sittin' down on the curb-
stone an' 'id 'is fice in 'is 'ands."
Dart hid his own face after the
manner of the wretched curate.
"No wonder," he groaned. His
blood turned cold.
"But," said Glad, "Miss
Montaubyn's lidy she says Godamighty
never done it nor never intended it,
an' if we kep' sayin' an' believin' 'e 's
close to us an' not millyuns o' miles
away, we'd be took care of whilst
we was alive an' not 'ave to wait till
we was dead.
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