But I ain't pore in spirit now.
Lor', no, yer can't be when yer've
on'y got to believe. `An' 'itherto
ye 'ave arst nothin' in my name;
arst therefore that ye may receive
an' yer joy be made full.' "
"Am I sitting here listening to an
old female reprobate's disquisition on
religion?" passed through Antony
Dart's mind. "Why am I listening?
I am doing it because here is
a creature who BELIEVES--knowing
no doctrine, knowing no church.
She BELIEVES--she thinks she KNOWS
her Deity is by her side. She is not
afraid. To her simpleness the awful
Unknown is the Known--and WITH
her."
"Suppose it were true," he uttered
aloud, in response to a sense of inward
tremor, "suppose--it--were
--TRUE?" And he was not speaking
either to the woman or the girl, and
his forehead was damp.
"Gawd!" said Glad, her chin
almost on her knees, her eyes staring
fearsomely. "S'pose it was--an' us
sittin' 'ere an' not knowin' it--an'
no one knowin' it--nor gettin' the
good of it. Sime as if--" pondering
hard in search of simile, "sime
as if no one 'ad never knowed about
'lectricity, an' there wasn't no 'lectric
lights nor no 'lectric nothin'. Onct
nobody knowed, an' all the sime it
was there--jest waitin'."
Her fantastic laugh ended for her
with a little choking, vaguely
hysteric sound.
"Blimme," she said. "Ain't it
queer, us not knowin'--IF IT'S TRUE."
Antony Dart bent forward in his
chair. He looked far into the eyes
of the ex-dancer as if some unseen
thing within them might answer
him.
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