knelt in the middle; her head was pressed upon her hands.
Leslie had always found prayer easy; in her short life she had prayed a good deal, finding prayer the greatest support in each hour of trial; but of late, since her own great trouble had come, she had almost forgotten to pray, and now it seemed difficult. It was not until she ceased to remember herself, and thought only of her friend, that her words went up to God, at first in broken utterances, then more earnestly and more full of faith. A low sob came from Marjorie’s lips. This sob was echoed by Leslie. Belle had taken up a prayer-book, had opened it, and was reading in a semi-whisper some of the prayers for the sick. After a very few moments Marjorie rose to her feet.
“I have prayed,” she said; “I have told God exactly what I want. He will hear. He must. It would be wrong, cruel, monstrous for Eileen, beautiful Eileen, to die. Come home now, Leslie,” she continued.
The three left the church as silently as they had entered. It was not until they reached Marjorie’s door that Belle spoke.
“Good-by, Marjorie,” she said, holding out her hand; “good-by. I will call again. But before I go, tell me—do tell me—if you seriously believe in all this?”
“I——” said Marjorie—she hesitated; the look of peace which had dawned upon her worn and anxious face left it. Before she could reply, Leslie answered with flashing eyes:
“Marjorie believes, or she could not have prayed as she did; and of course I believe,” she continued. “I believe in a God, and that He answers prayer.”
“I wonder if he will,” said Belle, with a queer, new sort of expression on her face. “It will be very strange.
I shall be most curious to know. Good-by, Marjorie—good-by, Leslie.”
She turned and walked down the street. When she had gone a couple of hundred yards she turned back, and called out to the other girls, who were still standing on the steps of the house: