“Say something, Gwladys,” said mother.
“Mother—I cannot. I have never prayed aloud.”
“Well, a form—some words. I am so broken—so frightened.”
“Our Father,” I began, impelled to say something quickly by the sound in mother’s voice, “our Father—deliver us from evil.”
“Ah! there it is,” sobbed mother. “That’s what I want. Oh! Lord, hear me. Oh! Christ, hear me. I’m a poor, weak, broken-down mother. Hear a mother’s cry. Save my boy—deliver my boy from evil. Oh! I have been wrong to think only of getting back the old place as it used to be—it was my fault, if any one’s, if my Owen forgot to see to the general safety. I urged him so hard; I gave him no rest. But oh! don’t punish me too hard—deliver my boy—my boy from evil.”
Now, I don’t know why I said what I did, for all night long my thoughts and fears had been with Owen; but at this juncture I burst out with an impulse I could not withstand—with a longing I could not restrain.
“That is not fair—you say nothing about David. Ask God to deliver David, too, from evil.”
“Gwladys, why—why do you say this?”
“I don’t know,” rising to my feet, and steadying my voice. “Mother, it is daylight. I will go down to see little Nan—she may tell me something.”