Lucy had been over the same Service almost every Sunday since she had been able to read, and could now find all the places without assistance, but she had hardly noticed many parts of it, and to some she had listened, while they were repeated by others, as if she had no part in the matter. Now the exhortation, "Dearly beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places," seemed so direct and simple, that she wondered she could ever have heard it without feeling for how important a purpose she had come into the house of God.
With a strange feeling of solemnity, she knelt down and began to repeat the Confession aloud. The words were so simple and natural, and so true, that she seemed rather to be speaking what had long been in her heart, than repeating what had been spoken by many voices around her from Sunday to Sunday, while she thoughtlessly glanced on the page, or let her mind wander to other things. As she said, "We have done those things that we ought not to have done," little faults she had committed, acts known only to herself, came thronging on her memory. Among these painful recollections was the falsehood she had told about the light the morning after the thunder-storm. The whole fearful scene of that night came back to her: again she seemed standing, trembling and alone, in the passage, while the incessant lightning appeared to threaten her with instant death. So long she dwelt on these circumstances, that she quite forgot she was on her knees, speaking to the mighty God of heaven. Suddenly it flashed upon her, and she started up, as if she feared He would immediately punish her for seeming to be praying, while her thoughts were far away. Lucy had begun to realize that prayer is something more than merely repeating a form of words.
The little girl had hardly risen from her knees before there was a ring at the door. She set off immediately to save Betsy the trouble of coming up stairs, for the poor old woman suffered much from rheumatism, and Lucy knew it gave her great pain to move about. "I will go, Betsy," she called, as she passed the stairway.
A ragged Irishman was standing at the door. Lucy was almost afraid to turn the key, lest he should lay hold of her with his hard, rough hands: she felt inclined to call out to him to go away, as the doctor was not at home; but she thought of the misery that giving way to her fear of Mrs. Tappan's dog had cost her, and her father's reproof, and she resolved that no poor sufferer should go uncared-for because she was afraid to speak to a man in ragged clothes.
She threw the door wide open, and was quite relieved when the Irishman took off his hat, and asked her very respectfully, "Is the doctor in?"
"He is not," answered Lucy, promptly: "where shall I tell him to call?"
"Sure and it's jist down the lane, forninst Bridget O'Brady's: he can't miss it, for isn't it the poorest bit of roof in the place? and tell him to come quick, if you plase, miss."
The man turned to go away, but Lucy called after him, not at all satisfied that the direction would be sufficient. "What is your name?" she asked; "I want to put it down on the slate for my father."
"It's Owen M'Grath, plase you; and don't be afther stopping me, for who will be minding the baby, and the mother so sick, while I am jist talking here?" So saying, he hurried from the door.
Lucy had very little idea how the name was to be spelt, but she put it down as well as she could, the direction and all, and looked at it quite proudly when it was done. It was neatly written, but oh, the spelling!