Bobby opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, and tears crowded into his eyes.
'Is she really gone, father? Oh, how could God take her so quick? I did want to say a proper good-bye. Look, father, dear, at my picsher. Is she inside by this time, do you think? How long does it take to go to heaven?'
Mr. Allonby took up his little son's picture and gazed at it with keen interest, then he put it down with a heavy sigh.
'Yes, she's there right enough, sonny. I don't doubt that. Shall we say a little prayer together—you and I—for I feel quite unable for what is before me.'
So the grown-up man knelt by the small bed, and Bobby jumped up and knelt by his side, and in very broken, faltering accents he prayed:
'Merciful God, have pity on me and my children; be with us now she has left us. Help me to do my duty; forgive my selfish life. I want to be different; change me; set me right; make me what she wanted me to be. Bless this boy here, make him a better man than his father. And the little motherless girl—how can I take care of her? Have pity and help us all for Christ's sake. Amen.'
It was a prayer that Bobby never forgot all his life, and he never spoke of it to anyone. Childlike, he kept it wrapped up in his heart. He was puzzled at his father's distress; he thought no grown-up person ever cried; but his whole being quivered afresh with loving devotion to the father who now had only himself and True to comfort him.