"Don't seem what?"
"As if—our praying had done much good."
Marigold blushed a little. Had she prayed steadily—following out her own advice to Narcissus? This question arose at once.
"I don't seem to have heart for it sometimes," she said, "living in the midst of all that worry."
"But you wanted me to ask that things might be different; and I have. I've thought of it every night, when I said my prayers. I have, really."
"I suppose answers don't always come directly," said Marigold, in a subdued voice. "Mr. Heavitree says we often have to wait. But if you'll go on—I will, too. I have been wrong."
She hardly acknowledged, even to herself, how the main hindrance to prayer had been pre-occupation about James Todd.
"Yes, of course, I'll go on. Why shouldn't home be happier? It might be. Mother was so different at first."
"Sometimes she is now, just for a little while; and then it goes off, and she's as bad as ever again. I do try to bear with her, because I know I ought; but it is hard;" and Marigold's eyes were full of tears. "I can't make out what's the matter, and why she's so cross. Sometimes I think it's all jealousy. She don't seem to like father to be so fond of us."
"Mrs. Heavitree says mother is ill."