"What other thing?" I asked.
"Why, pray," she said. "Don't you remember you said that you always prayed when you were in trouble. I wish I could do that."
I did not answer her until I had sent up an earnest prayer that I might use the opportunity now that it was given to me, and that I might step inside the door, which at last seemed to be opened to me.
"But why can't you pray, Evelyn dear?" I asked.
"Well, May, I will tell you why," she said; "I have wanted to talk to you about it so very much, only I didn't like to begin. You see I have been thinking a great deal lately, and wishing that I was happy like you; and, one day when you were out of the room, you left on the table a bundle of those little books that you take with you when you go to see your poor people; so what do you think I did? I thought I should like to see what they were about, so I got one and read it; and then I put it back so carefully afterwards, just in the same place, that you might not find out what I had been doing. You did not find out?"
"Oh no," I said, "indeed I did not; but which one was it that you read?"
"It was about the prodigal son; don't you remember that one?"
"No," I said, "I have not read them all; was it a nice one?"
"Yes, very nice, and it made it very clear about prayer. I have been thinking of it often since."
"Will you tell me what you read?" I asked.