“Don’t you ever pray yourself, Ilse?”
“Oh, now and then—when I feel lonesome at night—or when I’m in a scrape. But I don’t want any one else to pray for me. If I catch you doing it, Emily Starr, I’ll tear your eyes out. And don’t you go sneaking and praying for me behind my back either.”
“All right, I won’t,” said Emily sharply, mortified at the failure of her well-meant offer. “I’ll pray for every single soul I know, but I’ll leave you out.”
For a moment Ilse looked as if she didn’t like this either. Then she laughed and gave Emily a volcanic hug.
“Well, anyway, please like me. Nobody likes me, you know.”
“Your father must like you, Ilse.”
“He doesn’t,” said Ilse positively. “Father doesn’t care a hoot about me. I think there’s times when he hates the sight of me. I wish he did like me because he can be awful nice when he likes any one. Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up? I’m going to be an elo-cu-tion-ist.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman who recites at concerts. I can do it dandy. What are you going to be?”
“A poetess.”