She made a last desperate and unsuccessful effort at calmness.
"Yes—but I'm not worth having," she sobbed and collapsed in a crumpled heap at his feet. "Don't stop me!" she gasped, waving him away. "Let me—burst!"
And Chalfont stood where he was, waiting while her pent-up feelings exhausted themselves in a flood of choking tears, until she should be ready for him. Presently her sobs ceased. She struggled to her knees; her hands were clasped; her face, with a faint presage of happiness upon it, was turned to the window where the dawn of a new morning glimmered. Her lips moved. She was murmuring something beneath her breath. "What are you saying, dear?" he asked gently. "I—I think I'm saying my prayers," she answered huskily.
There, on her knees, with her hair still hanging in disorder, the tears drying on her face, thanksgiving and humility in her heart, she repeated the words of her rhymed creed, with a reverence that surely gave it the consecration of a prayer.
"All's well with the world, my friend,
And there isn't an ache that lasts;
All troubles will have an end,
And the rain and the bitter blasts.
There is sleep when the evil is done,
There's substance beneath the foam;
And the bully old yellow sun will shine
Till the cows come home!"
She held out her arms to Chalfont.
"Lift me up," she whispered.
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HONEY-POT ***