In time the
seed would have stirred to life--it is
beginning to stir even now. During
the months since she came back to the
court--though they have laughed
at her--both men and women have
begun to see her as a creature weirdly
set apart. Most of them feel something
like awe of her; they half believe
her prayers to be bewitchments,
but they want them on their side.
They have never wanted mine. That
I have known--KNOWN. She believes
that her Deity is in Apple Blossom
Court--in the dire holes its people
live in, on the broken stairway, in
every nook and awful cranny of it--
a great Glory we will not see--only
waiting to be called and to answer.
Do _I_ believe it--do you--do any
of those anointed of us who preach
each day so glibly `God is EVERYWHERE'?
Who is the one who believes? If
there were such a man he would go
about as Moses did when `He wist
not that his face shone.' "
They had gone out together and
were standing in the fog in the
court. The curate removed his hat
and passed his handkerchief over his
damp forehead, his breath coming
and going almost sobbingly, his eyes
staring straight before him into the
yellowness of the haze.
"Who," he said after a moment
of singular silence, "who are you?"
Antony Dart hesitated a few
seconds, and at the end of his pause
he put his hand into his overcoat
pocket.
"If you will come upstairs with
me to the room where the girl Glad
lives, I will tell you," he said, "but
before we go I want to hand something
over to you.
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