“And I,” said Henry.
“And I, too,” said Joe Merrithew.
In less than an hour the swift little craft was cleaving the waves, her sheets well aft, the smoke pouring from the wooden chimney into the clew of the foresail, and the spray freezing as fast as it came on board.
When Charlie came, he was so shocked by the emaciated appearance of Ben, and the alteration in Sally, who had grown pale and thin, that he burst into tears.
“Charlie,” said Sally, as they sat together, after the rest had retired, and Ben was asleep, “do you remember that the first night you came here, you said your mother’s dying counsel to you was, when trouble came, to pray to God, and he would take care of you?”
“Yes, mother.”
“Do you ever pray now?”
“I say the Lord’s prayer; and the first time I went on to my land after it was mine, I thanked the Lord, or tried to; but I’ve been so happy here, that I have not prayed as I did before. Don’t you think,” said he, fairly getting into her lap, “that we are more for praying when we are in a tight place?”
“Yes, Charles; and so the better God uses us, the worse we use Him. The night you came here, a poor outcast boy, like drift-wood flung on the shore, you said you thought God had forgotten you; and now that he has given you a mother in me, and a father in Ben, and a brother in John, you have forgotten Him.”