“I’m going to say my prayers!” said Zaidee, with sudden inspiration. “Then le’s jump.”
So Zaidee steadied herself on her poor little battered knees, by the side of the cart, but she could think of nothing but her little evening prayer. At the top of her lungs, so “God could hear,” she prayed:
“Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take.
And this I ask for Jesus’ sake, Amen!”
“Come on, Helen!”
And before they could have said “Jack Robinson,” out they rolled, a wretched little mixed-up bundle of bewildered arms and legs and bumped heads, in the dust. And on went the oxen.
Back in the distance came Thomas’s voice.