She felt him shudder.

"But if I feel it," she said, shuddering also, yet unable to deceive
herself, "what difference do I make by saying it? He must know it is
so, whether I say it or not."

There was a tremendous difference to Tommy, but not of a kind he could
explain, and she went on; she must tell him everything now.

"I pray every night and morning; but that is nothing--everyone does
it. I know I thank God sincerely; I thank Him again and again and
again. Do you remember how, when I was a child, you used to be
horrified because I prayed standing? I often say little prayers
standing now; I am always thanking Him for giving me you. But all the
time it is a bargain with Him. So long as you are well I love Him, but
if you were to die I would never pray again. I have never said it in
words until to-day, but He must know it, for it is behind all my
prayers. If He does not know, there cannot be a God."

She was watching his face, half wofully, half stubbornly, as if,
whatever might be the issue of those words, she had to say them. She
saw how pained he was. To admit the possible non-existence of a God
when you can so easily leave the subject alone was horrible to Tommy.

"I don't doubt Him," she continued. "I have believed in Him ever since
the time when I was such a lonely child that I did not know His name.
I shall always believe in Him so long as He does not take you from me.
But if He does, then I shall not believe in Him any more. It may be
wrong, but that is what I feel.