"Let us pray!"
Everybody knelt where he or she chanced to be standing—Mrs. Grigsby by the cradle of her sleeping baby, Bea and Calley at the foot of the bed, Dee before a chair, the negroes crouching upon the floor. The candles flared and guttered, the blaze in the fireplace was beaten this way and that by the damp wind pouring in through the open doors, the drip and dash of the rain without were a low accompaniment to the father's voice, weighted with emotion. While he prayed he kept his hand upon Flea's head.
"Almighty God and Heavenly Father, we give Thee humble thanks that Thou hast been graciously pleased to deliver from great danger the child in whose behalf we bless and praise Thy name in the presence of Thy people. Grant, we beseech Thee, O gracious Father, that she, through Thy help may both faithfully live in this world according to Thy will and also may be partaker of everlasting glory in the life to come, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
When all had risen he told in few and strong words where and how he had found the child, now sobbing with excitement in his arms.
"Now," he concluded, "we will talk no more of this matter to-night, and I will have no questions asked this child. She is tired and nervous. In nothing is she to blame. We have great cause for thankfulness for her safety. Mother, have you had supper while we were away?"
He never called her "ma." Flea was the only one of the children who imitated him in this respect. Mrs. Grigsby was fussy, and in many things foolish, but she obeyed her husband's orders in not questioning the runaway, and wiping her eyes more than was quite necessary, led the way meekly to the dining-room. It was an unusually silent meal, the father setting the example of saying little while he ate. When supper was over he kissed Flea, which he seldom did to any of the children, and bade her, "Go right up to bed," and not to forget to say her prayers.
"And you, Beatrice, when you go up, do not talk to her. She needs rest and sleep."
He was a sensible man, and his behavior on this occasion was what seemed wise and becoming according to his judgment. If he had intended to establish poor Flea in her dignity as an important personage, and stuff her head with absurd notions, he could not have done it more surely. When her bare feet trod the short crooked staircase leading to her bedroom, it was with the measured pace of one who has a position to fill and means to fill it. She was almost surprised that the glass to-night reflected the face she was used to seeing in it.
Bea followed her shortly, brimming over with curiosity and resolution to hear all there was to tell.
"Say," she said, in a half-whisper, coming up to her sister, "how big was the moccasin? It must have felt mighty heavy on your feet. What did pa kill him with?"