“This is a holy place to me, this room,” he said, the agonies of silence broken. “I can feel the white floods of spirit that drive the world.”
She did not need to answer. She held fast to herself, lest something betray her. Darkness was salvation. All that his Guardian had asked was in her work. John Morning told it off, sentence by sentence. It took her life, but he must not know. She thought she would die immediately after he was gone—but, strangely, now the suffering was abated.... She was helping.... Was not that the meaning of life—to give, to help, to love?... Someone had said so.
He lifted her, carried her in his arms, talked and praised her.
“There’s something deathlessly bright about you, Betty Berry!” he whispered. “I am going—but we are one! Don’t you feel it? You are loving the world from my heart!”
To the door, but not to the light, she walked with him.... Up the stairs he strode a last time to take her in his arms.
“We are one—a world-loving one—remember that!”
She did not know why, but as he kissed her—she thought of the pitcher broken at the fountain.
It was all strange light and singing flame.... She was lost in the hall. She laughed strangely.... She must play him on his way.... Someone helped her through the raining light—until she could feel the strings.
BOOK III.
THE BARE-HEADED MAN
1