“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.  Miss Montaubyn herself for the moment he did not see.

“What,” he stammered hoarsely, his voice broken with awe, “what of the hideous wrongs—­the woes and horrors—­and hideous wrongs?”

“There wouldn’t be none if we was right—­if we never thought nothin’ but ’Good’s comin’—­good ’s ‘ere.’  If we everyone of us thought it—­every minit of every day.”

She did not know she was speaking of a millennium—­the end of the world.  She sat by her one candle, threading her needle and believing she was speaking of To-day.

He laughed a hollow laugh.

“If we were right!” he said.  “It would take long—­long—­long—­to make us all so.”

“It would be slow p’raps.  Well, so it would—­but good comes quick for them as begins callin’ it.  It’s been quick for me,” drawing her thread through the needle’s eye triumphantly.  “Lor’, yes, me legs is better—­ me luck’s better—­people’s better.  Bless yer, yes!”

“It’s true,” said Glad; “she gets on somehow.  Things comes.  She never wants no drink.  Me now,” she applied to Miss Montaubyn, “if I took it up same as you—­wot’d come to a gal like me?”

“Wot ud yer want ter come?” Dart saw that in her mind was an absolute lack of any premonition of obstacle.  “Wot’d yer arst fer in yer own mind?”

Glad reflected profoundly.