For a while he lay there in the darkness, trying to think how he could tell Ann that to his eyes all things had become new; after a little while he did try to tell her, and although the words were lame, and apparently contradictory to much that they both knew was also true, still some small measure of his meaning passed into her mind.
"God is different from what I ever thought," he said; "He isn't in some things and not in others; it's wicked to live so as to make people think that, for they think they can get outside of Him, and then they don't mind Him at all." "How do you know it ?" she asked curiously.
"I saw it.

Perhaps God showed me because I was so hard up.

It's God's truth, Ann, that I am saying." The room was quite dark again now; the chirping of the crickets outside thrilled through and through it, as if there were no walls there but only the darkness and the chirping.

Ann sat upon a wooden chair by the stove.
She considered for a minute, and then she said, with the first touch of repentance in her heart: "Well, I reckon God ain't in me, any way.

There isn't much of God in me that I can see." "I'll tell you how it is if I can." Toyner's voice had a strange rest and calm in it.