“For goodness’ sake let’s say our prayers at once,” she said. “What will mother say when we tell her? Weenie, kneel up here quickly, pet, and then run off to your own bed.”
Weenie tumbled up wearily on the pillow.
“Bless me and everybody, God, and let me find my sreepence again; that’s all, please, Phyl.”
Dolly saw her into the other room, tucked the clothes round her and left her asleep before she could cross back again and begin her own devotions. Strange prayers these small girls prayed.
They had a regular formula, in which “Our Father” came first and made them feel reverence, yet also fear, for the all-powerful God. Then they said the “Gentle Jesus” of their younger days, and loved with a warm, living love that tender Shepherd who “in the Kingdom of His grace, gives a little child a place.”
And then came prayers begging for blessings individually for a number of relations and friends in an ascending order of affection.
As, for instance— “Bless Jane and Harriet (or Hay’at) and cook and old John; bless dear cousins Edith and Mary and Maurice and dear little Cousin Annie, and let poor Alice Partridge’s back get better soon. Bless dear Aunt Margaret and dearest Aunt Ella, and—bless Aunt Anne” (the honest young tongues could not say dear to this severe, unbending [106] ]sister of Mr. Conway’s). “Bless darling, darling little Weenie, and Dolly (or Phyl). Bless darling, darling, precious, sweet little mother, and make her quite well and strong on earth and very happy.” (They added the “on earth,” for they knew, alas! that, like both the fathers they had lost, she might be “well and strong” and yet not be on earth.) And such was their horror now of death and the pain for the ones left behind, that they added, sometimes with trembling lips, “And pray, dear Lord, don’t let any of us die by ourselves, but let us all fall dead together.”
A petition or two then came of a purely private nature, for Christ was a tender Father to them, and they put up their wants in perfect faith, however trivial they were.
“Oh, please,” Dolly would pray, “if it is not wrong to ask, dear Jesus, will you let me say my R’s quite stwaight like everybody says them.” This was her keenest trouble.
“Let me,” was Phyl’s petition at one time, “have quite straight hair, dear God, and a nose like Clara Cameron’s. And let us be good to mama, and grow up very quickly, and be able to do plenty of work to help her.”