One morning Angelica didn’t get up. Her mother, in great anxiety, came over to her, to make enquiries, but Angelica drove her away with fierceness, swearing at her, abusing her.
"Let me alone!" she cried. "Shut your mouth and mind your own business!"
"Oh, Angie, Angie!" said the poor soul. "If you’d only talk to me! If you only had the sense to know how I could help you!"
"Shut up!" screamed Angelica, hysterically. "And get out! Don’t speak to me again!"
Mrs. Kennedy took up her pail and went out; but half-way up the stairs she collapsed. She sat down on one of the steps and tried to pray; but she didn’t know quite what to ask of God.
Because she knew; she couldn’t doubt any longer. She knew what was wrong with Angelica!
She didn’t really want to pray. She wanted God to do the talking. She wanted to listen to Him, not to talk to Him; to discuss it, to ask questions, to have an explanation, to hear the voice of authority.
What was the use of sitting there telling Him what He surely knew? Or to beg for mercy or pity, when what she wanted was advice? Not that vague sort of "guidance" which one prayed for, and which really meant puzzling things out alone as best one could. There was one thing, though——
"Oh, Lord!" she prayed. "Soften Thou her heart and let her turn to me!"
She remembered afterward how miraculously this prayer was answered.