"Billy, I'm going to Jude because—he's mine, and I belong to him—and it never pays in this world to take what doesn't belong to you."
"But—Gaston—you belong to him—and I want—you—to have him!" Billy felt a mad inclination to cry, but struggled against it.
"No, I never belonged to him, Billy. Believe that all your life—it will make a better man of you. He was heavenly good to me because he was sorry for me—and wanted to see me happy. But happiness doesn't come—that way. Sometimes it seems as if it did—sometimes it seems as if God meant it so—perhaps He did—but the people out—in the world—the people that should have known how—the people who had time and money and learning, they've muddled things so—that we can't even see what God meant for right or wrong.
"Why, Billy, they punish the wrong people, and then when they find out—they do not know the way to set it straight; but it doesn't matter, Billy, we have to go on, on, on, the best we can!"
Joyce put her arms around the boy, and bent her head on his thin, shaking shoulder.
She no longer wore the yellow gown. She was plain, commonplace Joyce, familiar to Billy's unregenerated youth.
But Billy did not fail her. Awkwardly, but with wonderful understanding, he put his arms around her, and whispered:
"I just wisht, Joyce, I was God for a minute—and it would all be right or I'd be——"
"Billy!"
"I'd be gol-swizzled," Billy tamely ended.