What a good thing to have a Father like God to tell it all to, what a wonderful thing that He could hear her, without her having to get up to go to Him.
Her ideas of God were misty, very misty, she had not the least conception where Heaven was, or what it was, she only knew there was a God, there was a Heaven—a God for her, a Heaven for her; and with all her ignorance, many of the gifted, and mighty, and learned of the earth do not know as much. Now for the first time she would pray. She thought of no difficulty in making her petition known to God.
No more hard to tell Him of a want than it was, when her mother lived, to tell her of a desire or longing that possessed her.
“Please, I wants fur Janey or somebody to come to the cellar afore long,” she said; “I wants a sup of water werry bad, and somethink to eat. And there is two shillings stored away in mother’s old bonnet-box. Janey’d buy lots of wittles wid it. She’d be glad to come, ’cause I’d pay ’er, and I’m werry faint like. You’d ’ave to fetch ’er, please, God, ’cause she’s not at ’ome, but away to the paper factory—but you that is real kind won’t mind that.”
Then Flo lay still and listened, and waited.
She had made her request, and now the answer would come any moment.
Any instant Janey’s quick step and the sound of her crutch might be heard outside, and she would look in with her surprised face, to say that notwithstanding her employer’s anger she had been fetched away by God Himself, and meant to wait on Flo all day.
And then Flo pictured how quickly she would send Janey out, and how eagerly and willingly, with a whole bright shilling in her greedy little hand, Janey would go; and how she would commission her to buy two large mutton bones for Scamp, and a jug of cold, cold water, and a hice—for Flo felt more thirsty than hungry now—for herself.
For half-an-hour she lay very patient, straining her ears to catch Janey’s expected footstep; but when that time, and more than that time passed, and every footfall still went by on the other side, she grew first fretful, then anxious, then doubtful. She had never prayed before, but Mrs Jenks had told her that assuredly when she did pray an answer would come.
Well, she had prayed, she had spoken to God very distinctly, and told Him exactly what she wanted, but no answer came. He was to fetch Janey to her, and no Janey arrived. She had not made a hard request of Him,—she had only begged that a little child, as poor as herself, should come and give her a cup of cold water,—but the child never appeared, and Flo’s parched lips were still unmoistened. How strange of Mrs Jenks to tell her God would hear and answer prayer—not a bit of it. At least He would not hear little prayers like hers. Very likely He was too busy listening to the Queen’s prayers, and to the great people’s prayers. The great, rich people always had the best of everything, why should they not have the best of God’s time too?