Norah could not have put her prayer into words, but her soul's pleading was something like this—
"Oh, Lord! Help me! Oh, Lord forgive me! I am a poor, foolish, sinful girl! The evil I would not, I do, and I leave my duties undone! Oh, give me Thy Holy Spirit; give me the breastplate of righteousness, strong and firm against every temptation, that I may know Thy will, and do Thy will, and follow my Saviour all my life, and be happy with Him for ever!"
A few minutes before the church-clock struck nine, a shadow fell on the pavement in front of Mrs. Martin's dwelling, and there was the sound of a low rap, as of a stealthy hand on the panel of the door, followed by an eager whisper, "Quick, Norah, quick, we are late."
The door unclosed but a few inches, the chain prevented its opening wider. Young Norah stood behind it, the glare of the street lamp showed her pale, agitated face.
"Oh, Sophy, don't be angry; I may not—must not come. I have written my reasons on the paper in which this book is wrapped up, take it, and oh, forgive me."
Norah drew back as if afraid of trusting herself to say more.
Sophy, disappointed and angry, had snatched the novel out of Norah's hand.
"I'll never believe, nor trust, nor speak to you again," she exclaimed, turning away with a burst of petty resentment.
Perhaps Sophy hoped to hear Norah's voice entreating her to return; she only heard the rattle of the chain, and the sound of the closing door. Something firmer than panel, and stronger than iron or steel, had been now raised to be a barrier between Norah Peele and her false friend.