From where she stood there was visible to her first the courtyard beneath, with its lawn in the centre, and a couple of trees growing there—­all plain in the brilliant light that now streamed from her window, and secondly, above the roofs, a tremendous pall of ruddy black.  It was the more terrible from the contrast.  Earth, it seemed, was capable of light; heaven had failed.

It appeared, too, that there was a curious stillness.  The house was, usually, quiet enough at this hour:  the inhabitants of that place were in no mood for bustle:  but now it was more than quiet; it was deathly still:  it was such a hush as precedes the sudden crash of the sky’s artillery.  But the moments went by, and there was no such crash:  only once again there sounded a solemn rolling, as of some great wain far away; stupendously impressive, for with it to the girl’s ears there seemed mingled a murmur of innumerable voices, ghostly crying and applause.  Then again the hush settled down like wool.

She had begun to understand now.  The darkness and the sounds were not for all eyes and ears.  The nurse had seen and heard nothing extraordinary, and the rest of the world of men saw and heard nothing.  To them it was no more than the hint of a coming storm.

Mabel did not attempt to distinguish between the subjective and the objective.  It was nothing to her as to whether the sights and sounds were generated by her own brain or perceived by some faculty hitherto unknown.  She seemed to herself to be standing already apart from the world which she had known; it was receding from her, or, rather, while standing where it had always done, it was melting, transforming itself, passing to some other mode of existence.  The strangeness seemed no more strange than anything else than that ... that little painted box upon the table.

Then, hardly knowing what she said, looking steadily upon that appalling sky, she began to speak....

“O God!” she said.  “If You are really there really there—–­”

Her voice faltered, and she gripped the sill to steady herself.  She wondered vaguely why she spoke so; it was neither intellect nor emotion that inspired her.  Yet she continued....

“O God, I know You are not there—­of course You are not.  But if You were there, I know what I would say to You.  I would tell You how puzzled and tired I am.  No—­No—­I need not tell You:  You would know it.  But I would say that I was very sorry for all this.  Oh!  You would know that too.  I need not say anything at all.  O God!  I don’t know what I want to say.  I would like You to look after Oliver, of course, and all Your poor Christians.  Oh! they will have such a hard time....  God.  God—­You would understand, wouldn’t You?” ...

* * * * *

Again came the heavy rumble and the solemn bass of a myriad voices; it seemed a shade nearer, she thought....  She never liked thunderstorms or shouting crowds.  They always gave her a headache ...