"Meet God—that's what I want all you dear people here with me this evening to do … I presume some of you know about God already; and all of you at least know of Him," she urged, caressing her italics. She paused again, reaching out toward her audience. "The way we know about folks in the next street." ("New Yorkers don't," her grandson reflected.) "Or the way we know of famous people in the past: great heroes or splendid noble-hearted women. That's not the way I want you to know about God. I want you to know Him Himself—to get acquainted with Him, the way you would if He was living in the house next door, and you sent round to borrow the lawn mower. I want you to get to know Him so well that you're always borrowing, and He's always lending; so that finally you don't hardly know what belongs to you and what belongs to Him—and I guess maybe He don't either. That's the reason I say to you all: Meet God! Because, oh, you dear beloved people sitting here listening to me, I've met Him; and I know what it's like!"

She stood silent, her face illumined, as Vance had seen it when she looked up to the sky from the porch at Crampton. She was certainly a beautiful old woman, he thought; and he felt that the people about him thought so too. But what did they make of her exordium? They were silent; he felt that their judgment was suspended. But there was the hideous slur of her pronunciation, blurring and soiling every word… .