"You feel quite sure that Cohen does not take the time to work out the sums properly?"
"Yes, father; perfectly sure."
"Then why don't you inform Dr. Johnston of your suspicions, and he will make an examination into the matter?"
"Oh, father!" exclaimed Bert, with a look of profound surprise. "You wouldn't have me turn tattle-tale, would you?"
"No, Bert, dear; indeed, I would not, although you should lose a dozen prizes. I said that simply to see what you would think of it, and I am glad you answered me as I expected you would. But, Bert, you have asked my advice in this matter. Did you think of asking somebody else who is infinitely wiser than I am?"
Bert understood his father at once.
"No, father; I did not. I never thought of it," he answered, frankly.
"Then had you not better do so when you are saying your prayers to-night?"
"I will, father. I'm so glad you reminded me." And with that Bert dropped the subject for the time.
That night, ere he went to bed, Bert laid the matter before his Father in heaven, just as he had done before his father upon earth. He had imbibed his ideas of prayer from what he heard from his own father at family worship. Mr. Lloyd's conception of prayer was that it could not be too simple, too straightforward. It often seemed as though God were present in the room, and he was talking with him, so natural, so sincere, so direct were his petitions. And Bert had learned to pray in the same manner. A listener might at times be tempted to smile at the frankness, the naïvete of Bert's requests; but they were uttered not more in boyish earnest than in truest reverence by the petitioner.