She turned to go out. Through the open door she saw the night and the storm. Within was the silent dome, and the organ-hymn still swelling up to it.
It was still of the wounded that they sang. Meg listened, lingered, touched the preacher on the arm as he came by.
"I want to ask you a question."
He started at the sight of her, or more perhaps at the sharpness in her voice.
"Why, why, who are you?"
"I'm Meg. You don't know me. I ain't fit for your fine Christian people to touch; they won't let their little children speak to me."
"Well?" he said, nervously, for she paused.
"Well? You're a preacher. I want to know about Him they've been singing of, I came in to hear the singing. I like it."
"I—I don't quite understand you," began the minister. "You surely have heard of Jesus Christ."
"Yes," her eyes softened, "somebody used to tell me; it was mother; we lived in the country. I wasn't what I am now. I want to know if he can put me back again. What if I should tell him I was going to be different? Would he hear me, do you suppose?"