Dilsey Quinn rose with a peculiar lightness of heart, and seemed walking
on air. A curious tingle sped through her nerves, and her eyes had a
strange light of their own. She pushed the door open and looked out
cautiously. Her mother was on the lounge. Bridget sat by the stove, her
chair tilted back against the door-jamb. The lamp had been turned down a
little, the stove-lid lifted; and it made a strange, soft semicircle on
the ceiling, such as Dil had seen around the heads in pictures when she
had stolen a glance at the show windows.
The silence, for that impressed her, in spite of snoring in different
keys, and the weird aspect, made the room instinct with supernatural
life. Dil did not understand this, but she felt it, and was filled and
possessed by that exaltation of mysterious faith. She walked softly but
fearlessly across the room,--if she could open the door without Bridget
hearing.
John Travis should have seen her at that moment, with the unearthly
radiance on her face, the uplifted confident eyes.