"I've been—trying—" she whispered that night, when Prue bent over her.
"Trying?"
"Trying to do—what you said . . . Don't you know? . . . You asked if I ever—ever—"
"Ever prayed?"
"Yes. And—I have been trying—really! . . . Mr. Kelly asked me once—if I didn't often do it. I don't often—but—"
"But you will begin now. You will do it often from to-day. Mr. Kelly was right," murmured Prue. "He—was he a kind friend to you, Lettice?"
"He got the work for Felix, and he used to come and see Sissie. I don't think Sissie liked him much."
"And you—did you like him?"
Prue blamed herself for letting the conversation drift in this direction; yet perhaps enough had been said in the other direction. "O yes—I liked sometimes," Lettice answered. "He told me to write and tell him how Sissie was. And he said if we were in trouble, I must let him know."
Lettice shut her eyes, and Prue asked no more. Why, indeed, should she?