"Oh," she said, "I don't mind so much for myself; it is poor little baby that makes me so unhappy. He cries so much, and that girl is so very careless with him. Old Mr. Ellis is very kind; he wants me to go there, but Claude won't hear of it: I don't know why. We could not live at all if it were not for Claude's father; he is always sending him money."
"But could you not be moved into a more comfortable lodging than this?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not. It is very dirty and untidy; but you see they are good in one way, they do not hurry us about paying them, so it seems a pity to move. But I did not send for you to tell you all our troubles, Mrs. Stanley," she said; "I wanted you, if you could, to help me to get a little comfort."
"In what way?" I asked, for I wanted to hear what she would say.
"Do you remember a conversation we had together when I stayed at Alliston Hall, Mrs. Stanley? I told you then that I always tried to laugh trouble away, and you said—do you remember what you said?"
"What was it?" I asked.
"You said that there were some troubles that could not be laughed away. Those troubles have come to me now; I can't laugh now, Mrs. Stanley. But I wonder if you remember what else you said that day; you told me that you never tried to laugh troubles away, but you always prayed them away. Oh, if I could only do that!"
"Do you believe in prayer, Mrs. Ellis?" I asked.
"Yes, I do," she said, earnestly; "I do now. I used to laugh at it when Claude laughed at it, and I used to try to think it was all nonsense. But the other day the doctor was here, and I said,—
"'Doctor, please tell me the truth; shall I ever get well again?'