And instead of that she had flung into the
agonized face of Mrs. Munday these awful words:
"I wish he was dead!"
"He who in his heart--" there was verse and chapter for it. Joan was a
murderess. Just as well, so far as Joan was concerned, might she have
taken a carving-knife and stabbed Deacon Hornflower to the heart.
Joan's prayers that night, to the accompaniment of Mrs. Munday's sobs,
had a hopeless air of unreality about them. Mrs. Munday's kiss was cold.
How long Joan lay and tossed upon her little bed she could not tell.
Somewhere about the middle of the night, or so it seemed to her, the
frenzy seized her. Flinging the bedclothes away she rose to her feet. It
is difficult to stand upon a spring mattress, but Joan kept her balance.
Of course He was there in the room with her. God was everywhere, spying
upon her. She could distinctly hear His measured breathing. Face to
face with Him, she told Him what she thought of Him. She told Him He was
a cruel, wicked God.
There are no Victoria Crosses for sinners, or surely little Joan that
night would have earned it.
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