"And when I said," she hesitated, anxious to give him everything he asked of her, "the things I didn't like, I meant the things they tell us, Rookie. You know: facts, details. And then you think of God and—no use, Rookie, no use!"
"Yes," said Raven, "that's where Old Crow was up against it. But picture writing, because it's the only kind of writing we can read—picture writing, Nan, because we're savages—he could take that and not wince."
"Anyway," said Nan, "I'm happiest not thinking of it. I say my prayers: God bless Rookie. God bless me. That's all."
"I don't believe it."
"Don't believe what? That I say 'God bless Rookie'? Course I do. Why not?"
"Well, I'm blessed!" said Raven, at a loss. Then, recovering himself, "Nan, I never've known you in the least. How am I getting at you now?"
"Because we're shut up here with the quiet and the snow," said Nan.
She looked at the fire, not at him. He thought, with a startled delight in her, he had never seen a more contented figure and, the beauty of it was, entirely oblivious of him. It made no demands.
"It's a fact," he reflected, "I've really never seen you since you grew up. First you were a child, then you went over there. You had to take life whole, as Old Crow took his religion."
"Yes," said Nan, "I guess we're all queer, we young ones, that have been in service. You see we've had to take things as they are. You can't veil them from us. We've seen 'em. We know." She laughed out. "Rookie, it's queer, but I'm a good deal more like the old-fashioned girl we read about than the rest of the crowd I run with."