“We’ll all go—won’t we—to heaven? The singin’ was so beautiful. An’ the everlastin’ spring.”
“Good-by.” He clasped Dil’s hand. “Remember, wherever you are, I shall find you. Oh, do not be afraid, God will care for you.”
“I don’t seem to understand ’bout God,” and there was a great, strange awe in Dil’s eyes. “But you’ve been lovely. I can understand that.”
One more glance at Bess, whose face was lighted with an exalted glow, as if she were poised, just ready for flight. Oh, what could comfort Dil when she was gone? And he had so much! He was so rich in home and love.
A woman stood in the lower hallway, the half-despairing face he had noted. She clutched his arm.
“See here,” she cried. “You said, ‘deliver us from evil.’ Is anybody—is God strong enough to do it? From horrible evil—when there seems no other way open—when you must see some one you love—die starvin’—an’ no work to be had—O my God!”
The cry pierced him. Yes, there was a beneficent power in money. He gave thanks for it, as he crushed it in her hand. How did the poor souls live, herded in this narrow court? His father’s stable was a palace to it in cleanliness.
He had reasoned about poverty being one of the judicious forces of the world. He had studied its picturesque aspects, its freedom from care and responsibility, its comfortable disregard of conventionals, its happy indifference to custom and opinion. Did these people look joyous and content? Why, their faces even now haunted him with the weight of hopeless sorrow. Oh, what could he do to ease the burthen of the world?
Dil picked up the baby after she had lighted the lamp. She was still in a maze, as if some vision had come and gone. Was he really here? Or had she been in a blissful dream?
“Come an’ spell out what he’s written—an’—an’ his name, Dil!”