“Polly,” she said, “she wants to go ’ome to ‘er mother an’ to the country.  I ain’t got no mother an’ wot I ’ear of the country seems like I’d get tired of it.  Nothin’ but quiet an’ lambs an’ birds an’ things growin.’  Me, I likes things goin’ on.  I likes people an’ ’and organs an’ ’buses.  I’d stay ’ere—­same as I told you,” with a jerk of her hand toward Dart.  “An’ do things in the court—­if I ‘ad a bit o’ money.  I don’t want to live no gay life when I ’m a woman.  It’s too ’ard.  Us pore uns ends too bad.  Wisht I knowed I could get on some ’ow.”

“Good ’ll come,” said Miss Montaubyn.  “Just you say the same as me every mornin’—­’Good’s fillin’ the world, an’ some of it’s comin’ to me.  It’s bein’ sent—­an’ I ‘m goin’ to meet it.  It’s comin’—­it’s comin’.’” She bent forward and touched the girl’s shoulder with her astonishing eyes alight.  “Bless yer, wot’s in my room’s in yours; Lor’, yes.”

Glad’s eyes stared into hers, they became mysteriously, almost awesomely, astonishing also.

“Is it?” she breathed in a hushed voice.

“Yes, Lor’, yes!  When yer get up in the mornin’ you just stand still an’ arst it.  ‘Speak, Lord,’ ses you; ‘speak, Lord—­’”

“Thy servant ’eareth,” ended Glad’s hushed speech.  “Blimme, but I ’m goin’ to try it!”

Perhaps the brain of her saw it still as an incantation, perhaps the soul of her, called up strangely out of the dark and still new-born and blind and vague, saw it vaguely and half blindly as something else.

Dart was wondering which of these things were true.

“We’ve never been expectin’ nothin’ that’s good,” said Miss Montaubyn.  “We ‘re allus expectin’ the other.  Who isn’t?  I was allus expectin’ rheumatiz an’ ‘unger an’ cold an’ starvin’ old age.  Wot was you lookin’ for?” to Dart.

He looked down on the floor and answered heavily.

“Failing brain—­failing life—­despair—­death!”

“None of ’em’s comin’—­if yer don’t call ’em.  Stand still an’ listen for the other.  It’s the other that’s true.”

She was without doubt amazing.  She chirped like a bird singing on a bough, rejoicing in token of the shining of the sun.

“It’s wot yer can work on—­this,” said Glad.  “The curick—­’e’s a good sort an’ no’ ’arm in ’im—­but ’e ses:  ‘Trouble an’ ’unger is ter teach yer ter submit.  Accidents an’ coughs as tears yer lungs is sent you to prepare yer for ’eaven.  If yer loves ’Im as sends ’em, yer ’ll go there.’ ‘’Ave yer ever bin?’ ses I. ’’Ave yer ever saw anyone that’s bin?  ‘Ave yer ever saw anyone that’s saw anyone that’s bin?’ ‘No,’ ’e ses.  ‘Don’t, me girl, don’t!’ ‘Garn,’ I ses; ‘tell me somethin’ as ’ll do me some good afore I’m dead!  ‘Eaven’s too far off.’”

“The kingdom of ’eaven is at ’and,” said Miss Montaubyn.  “Bless yer, yes, just ’ere.”

Antony Dart glanced round the room.  It was a strange place.  But something was here.  Magic, was it?  Frenzy—­dreams—­what?