Naturally she made some queer
mistakes, and because a rather beastly world was slow to understand
perfect innocence--the pre-serpentine innocence of Eve, so to speak--a
lot of injustice was done to the poor little statue come alive. Some of
the people wouldn't believe that she'd ever been a statue at all."
"I see!" exclaimed Mary, sharply. Then she was silent for a moment,
thinking; but at last she put a sudden question: "What happened to
Galatea?"
"Oh, the poor girl was so disgusted with the world that she went back to
being a statue again eventually. I think myself it was rather weak of
her, and that if she'd waited a bit she might have done better."
"I'm not sure," Mary said, slowly. "To-night I feel as if there was
_nothing_ better--than going back and being a statue."
"You won't feel like that to-morrow. The sun brings courage. I know--by
experience. You think, Miss Grant, for some reason or other--I don't
even want you to tell me what, unless it would do you good to tell--that
you're down in the depths. But you're not. You never can be. Where you
are it will always be light, really."
"What makes you believe I am good, if others don't believe it?" She
turned on him with the question, the moon carving her features in marble
purity, as if Galatea were already freezing again into the coldness of a
statue. The whole effect of her, in the long white cloak with its hood
pulled over the shining hair, was spiritual and unearthly. Hannaford
would have given his life for her, happily, just then.
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