'Is there anything I can do for you, my poor girl?' she said, leaning over her bed. 'Anything you have to say—any letter I can write—any—'
'If—you—would—pray—my lady,' was the slow, almost inarticulate reply.
Pray! This was what Miss Gwynne could not do. 'Why,' she asked herself, 'can I not say aloud what I feel at my heart for this unhappy creature? I never felt so before, and yet I know not how to pray.'
She went to the head of the stairs, and called Netta.
'Will you ask your brother whether he will come and read a prayer to the poor girl?' she said.
A few seconds after there was a knock at the door. She opened it and admitted Rowland. He went to the bed, and began to whisper gently of the hope of salvation to those who believe. Gladys opened her eyes, and caught the hand extended to her.
'More—more,' she murmured. 'Lord, I believe, help thou mine unbelief.'
Rowland read the Office for the Sick, from the prayer book, and she responded inwardly, her lips moving. Miss Gwynne came to the bed, and kneeling down, joined in the prayers.
Again Rowland spoke soothingly to the girl of the need of looking to Christ, the Saviour, alone in the hour of her extremity; and she murmured, 'He is my rock and my fortress.'
'Do you trust wholly in Him?'