"You brought us light and life. You have raised hundreds—as you raised me—out of misery and filth. Think of all the children you have sent away from this poison into the green fields and the sunshine—who would have died."
"Yes! yes!" he cried. "Go on! Go on! All the children...."
"You are building them," she said—her whole being transformed with tenderness. "You are making them fit to be men and women. They wouldn't have been fit without you. You are teaching them how to be clean and happy. You are showing them that they needn't be the dregs of humanity—that these hovels needn't be their world. You are giving them new interests, new thoughts, new hopes. Oh, what could be more wonderful—more splendid? It is God's own work."
"Yes! yes!" he cried again. "God's work! I am doing God's work!"
He paced up and down the room eagerly—feasting on her words—drinking her praises as an exhausted man might drink an invigorating draught. He was in the grip of a feverish energy. His blood was racing.
His quick steps shook the wretched room. The floor creaked under his tread. A lamp on the table rattled. The girl watched him nervously. She put out a hand to check him, but he brushed it aside. His looks, his movements, frightened her. He seemed to be gazing out beyond the narrow walls into a space of surging memories, that sported with his reason. He muttered incoherently, oblivious of her presence. She grew frightened.
"Jim!" she cried sharply.
He started, and stopped, looking at her vacantly.
"My work," he said restlessly. "I must get on with my work. I haven't done enough ... nearly enough. I must go on building ... go on giving light."
He let her put a hand on his arm and move him gently back to his chair. He sat down, and stared at her in a dazed fashion, as one returning to consciousness.