. 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
curbstone 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."

She got up on her feet and threw up her arms with a sudden jerk and
involuntary gesture.

"I 'm alive! I 'm alive!" she cried out, "I've got ter be took care of
NOW! That's why I like wot she tells about it. So does the women. We
ain't no more reason ter be sure of wot the curick says than ter be sure
o' this. Dunno as I've got ter choose either way, but if I 'ad, I'd
choose the cheerflest."

Dart had sat staring at her--so had Polly--so had the thief. Dart
rubbed his forehead.

"I do not understand," he said.

"'T ain't understanding! It's believin'. Bless yer, SHE doesn't
understand. I say, let's go an' talk to 'er a bit. She don't mind
nothin', an' she'll let us in. We can leave Polly an' 'im 'ere. They
can make some more tea an' drink it."

It ended in their going out of the room together again and stumbling
once more down the stairway's crookedness. At the bottom of the first
short flight they stopped in the darkness and Glad knocked at a door
with a summons manifestly expectant of cheerful welcome. She used the
formula she had used before.

"'S on'y me, Miss Montaubyn," she cried out. "'S on'y Glad."

The door opened in wide welcome