And Monk, he said: “I have no unreasonable regard for him; I may bow before the inevitable, but I decline to grovel before it, and if I burn with the best of ’em—well, I’d rather be torrid than torpid.”
“It would be well,” said Mary, “to praise God for such courage.”
“Is that what you praise him for?” we asked her.
“I praise God for Jesus,” Mary said to us: strange talk to be giving the likes of him and me.
We found the finest sleeping nooks, and she could not have rested better if there had been acres of silk; Monk, God-a-mercy, spent his money like a baron. One night in the little darkness he said:
“Look ye’re, Mary, tell us why you pray!”
“I pray because of a dream I had.”
“A dream! That’s strange, Mary; I could understand a person dreaming because of a prayer she has prayed, but not praying because of a dream she has dreamed.”
“Not even supposing,” I said to him, “you had dreamed you were praying prayers?”
“If I did,” said he, “I might pray not to dream such dreams.”