Leo said only—“Yes.”
“I want you to pray hard—hard,” she reiterated. “I know there is the sort of prayer that must bring an answer. Couldn’t you pray that kind of prayer for father? I would if I knew how; but all seems stony and cold. If only I had asked father when I could! Nobody else can help me. And my prayers wouldn’t bring an answer; but perhaps yours, will.”
“Why not yours, Joan?”
“Because I love father more than Christ,” she answered very low. “Father is everything to me. But I want other people to pray—hard—hard!”
The hotel was reached, and no more could be said. Leo thought of the “effectual fervent prayer” which “availeth much.” But also he knew that Joan was leaving out of sight the one great condition on which all answers to prayer must hang, the—“if it be according to his will.” No petition which runs counter to God can be ever that kind of prayer which does avail much and which brings a full reply.
“I’ve got right down into darkness.”
[CHAPTER XX.]
HALL AND FARM.
WINTER had fairly set in at last, with what, in the uncertain English climate, they call “unusual severity.”