She understood him and smiled comprehendingly. Then she said humbly: “Don’t delay yourself any more—it’s time to go. May I say prayers to you first?”
“Yes,” he replied, gravely subduing his astonishment at this, the first request of the kind that she had made to him. She knelt down by his knee, and pressing her little hot cheek against his hand, repeated devoutly a series of eminently proper and reverential prayers that Mrs. Trotley had taught her, but which, on account of long words, could not possibly convey to her mind any apprehension of their meaning.
At the last of the many “Amens,” she lifted her face and said with unspeakable sadness and humility, “Can I pray an extra?”
“Yes,” he returned, biting his lip; “as many as you please.”
She immediately poured forth one of the heart-felt, childish supplications which the young when in agony of soul will sometimes utter, and to his mingled shame and confusion it was addressed to himself, rather than to the Supreme Deity, who was but a shadowy and mysterious unreality to her.
“Dear Dr. Brian, cut the devil out of my heart and make me like you,” it began, and continued on through his list of virtues—in spite of his recent admission with regard to his temper—and a vehement and longing invocation to be more like him, so that he would not get angry with her.
He did not dare interrupt her, and sat looking at the reflection of his red and confused face in the unbroken part of the mirror opposite.
With a final sob, not dreaming that she had done anything unusual, she quietly put up her cheek for his usual good-night kiss.
“Good-night, dear Zilla,” he said, in a rather tremulous voice. “Will you not call me brother in future, rather than doctor?”
The child stared at him incredulously, then flung her arms around his neck in a choking embrace, murmuring in eager delight, “Brother Brian,” and rushed from the room.