“Your what?” he asked, not understanding.
“My Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep. That’s my prayers. She always hears me say them when she comes to kiss me good-night.”
He looked away, with a sudden rush of pain. There were tears in his eyes now. “Of course. Bobbie—I—I understand,” he faltered.
“She said I must never, never skip, for the Lord would know, and be angry.”
“Let me hear you, dear.”
“Do you know prayers?” The child looked at his father in wonder. “I didn’t know men knew prayers.”
“Yes, Bobbie. Sometimes they do. Go ahead.”
The child folded his hands, and stood at his father’s knee. “If I don’t remember it all, you must tell me,” he continued.
“Very well, dear; I will.” The tears were coming fast now.
“‘Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to—to—’” The quavering little voice halted.