“Pray for the Holy Spirit,” he said, moving away.
She knew how to pray; she had prayed all her life; but she had never once prayed for the Holy Spirit. She was afraid to do that.
What would happen to her if she did, she wondered, as she walked down the paved path to the gate; would a tongue of flame come down from heaven and settle on her head? Would she speak with tongues, right there, before them all, in the crowd? Would she heal the sick by prayer and anointing with oil? Would she pray in prayer-meeting, and go about from house to house talking about the Lord Jesus, whose dear, sacred name she seldom took upon her lips?
What a strange thing to say to a girl of thirteen!
There were no young disciples in the Bible; they were all grown up and old.
Just now all she wanted to do was to tell Jesus and his Father everything that troubled her, and everything she was glad of, and read the Bible, and,—“Come Judith,” interrupted Aunt Rody’s shrill voice. She sat on the back seat of the carriage with Aunt Rody; Mr. Brush sat alone on the front seat; Aunt Affy had not come to church to-day; it was her turn to stay at home.
Aunt Rody insisted that some one should always stay at home; there was the silver, and her will, and a great many other things to be guarded from Sunday marauders.
“Judith Grey Mackenzie,” began Aunt Rody, in her most revengeful voice, “you must behave in church or stay at home.”
“I was behaving—I read to help behave; when I cannot understand I think everyday thoughts; isn’t that worse than reading?”
“Nothing is so bad behaved as reading. And all the folks seeing you. What do you suppose the new minister thinks of you?”