She felt sorry to be unwittingly a listener to a prayer that the maker evidently thought was being heard only by his Savior.  But she could not shut out the low and yet wonderfully distinct sentences, and presently she ceased to wish to, for it became certain that he was praying for her.  He made it very plain.  He called her “that young girl who said to-day that she could not think of thee as her Father; who seems to want to be led by the hand to thee.”

Did you ever hear yourself prayed for by an earnest, reverent, pleading voice?  Then perhaps you know something of Flossy’s feelings as she lay there in the darkness.  She had never heard any one pray for her before.  So destitute was she of real friends that she doubted much whether there were one person living who had ever before earnestly asked God to make her his child.

That was what this prayer was asking.  She lifted the white sleeve of her gown, and wiped away tear after tear as the pleading voice went on.  Very still she was.  It seemed to her that she must not lose a syllable of the prayer, for here at last was the help she had been seeking, blindly, and without knowing that she sought, all this long, heavy day.  Help?  Yes, plain, clear, simple help.  How small a thing it seemed to do!  “Show her her need of thee, blessed Jesus,” thus the prayer ran.  And oh! hadn’t he showed her that?  It flashed over her troubled brain then and there:  “It is Jesus that I need.  It is he who can help me.  I believe he can.  I believe he is the only one who can.”  This was her confession of faith.  “Then lead her to ask the help of thee that she needs.  Just to come to thee as the little child would go to her mother, and say, ‘Jesus, take me; make me thy child.’” Only that?  Was it such a little, little thing to do?  How wonderful!

The praying ceased, and the young man who had remembered the stranger to whom God had given him a chance to speak during the day, all unconscious that other ear than God’s had heard his words of prayer, laid himself down to quiet sleep.  Flossy lay very still.  The rain had ceased during the afternoon, and now some solemn stars were peeping in through the chinks in the tent and the earth was moon-lighted.  She raised herself on one elbow and looked around on her companions.  How soundly asleep they were!

Another few minutes of stillness and irresolution.  Then a white-robed figure slipped softly and quietly to the floor and on her knees, and a low-whispered voice repeated again and again these words: 

“Jesus, take me; make me thy child.”

It wasn’t very long afterward that she lay quietly down on her pillow, and earth went on exactly as if nothing at all had happened—­knew nothing at all about it—­even the sleeper by her side was totally ignorant of the wonderful tableau that had been acted all about her that evening.  But if Eurie Mitchell could have had one little peep into heaven just then what would her entranced soul have thought of the music and the enjoyment there?  For what must it be like when there is “joy in the presence of the angels in heaven”?