"She's a Churchwoman, I suppose."
"No, no. She only believes things—and prays. She told me one day Osmond—he's the deformed one—he couldn't have lived if she hadn't prayed."
"That he would be better?"
"No, she was quite explicit about that. Only that they would be taught how to deal with it—his trouble. To do it, she said, as God wished they should. Billy, it's marvelous."
"Well, dear child," said Billy, "you can pray, too."
Her old face grew pinched in its denial.
"No," she answered sadly, "no. It wouldn't rise above the ceiling. What I mean is, Billy, that all our lives we're opening gates into different roads. Bessie Grant opened the right gate. She's got into a level field and she's at home there. But I shouldn't be. I only go and climb up and look over the bars. And I go stumbling along, hit or miss, and I never get anywhere."
He was perplexed. He frowned a little.
"Where do you want to get, Florrie?" he asked at length.
She smiled into his face engagingly.