“Wait until then, my child; don’t say anything more about mamma now.”
She was satisfied, and signified that she was ready to have her father carry her to her bed. Then she exclaimed with a laugh:
“Ain’t that funny?”
“What’s that?”
“I like to fordot to say my prayers.”
And slipping from her father’s knee, she knelt on the floor, with her hands covering her face which, as it pressed his knee, was hidden by the mass of golden ringlets clustering and falling about it. Not a man stirred or spoke. All were so silent that the sifting of the snow against the logs, the moaning of the gale and the soft rustle of the embers that broke apart on the hearth were audible. But all these were as the “voice 30 of silence” itself, so that when the child began her prayer in a low voice, every syllable was heard.
|
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless papa, mamma and make Nellie a good girl; bless––” |
Wheeling short round at the silent, awed group, she looked at the landlord and asked:
“What is your name?”
“Or-ti-gies,” he replied, pronouncing it carefully.