"Even he that hath clean hands, and a pure heart: and that hath not lift up his mind unto vanity, nor sworn to deceive his neighbour."
Mr. Bickers, as one that feels the words he reads, and is sure of them:
"He shall receive the blessing from the Lord: and righteousness from the God of his salvation."
Mrs. Bickers in gentle confirmation:
"This is the generation of them that seek him: even of them that seek thy face, O Jacob."
His turn again. He cannot! Let him get out of this! Let him away! This is not to be borne. Unendurable this. What are they reading? Why have they chosen these words. "Who shall ascend?" They know his misery, then! They know the depths that he is in! Hateful that they should know it, hateful, insufferable, horrible. They see his state and have chosen words that mean his state. He is exposed before them. Let him away! Let him get out of this! They shall not know! His turn. He cannot, cannot. They are watching. They are waiting. Do they see how his face is working? Do they see how he twists and twists his hands? His turn. Ah, ah, he is in the depths, the depths! He is physically, actually down, down—struggling, gasping, suffocating. All this room and these about him stand as it were above him—watching him, waiting for him, knowing his misery. He is sinking, sinking. He is in black and whirling darkness. There is shouting in his ears. Let him away! Let him go!
Some one says: "Essie, dear."
Essie—strong and loud and clear, with tremendous emphasis upon the first word as though her strong young voice performed its meaning:
"Lift up your heads, O ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors: and the King of glory shall come in."
He gets to his feet, overturning his chair. He stumbles away, with blind eyes, with groping hands.