“Poor father was always a great man for prayer ever since I can recollect.  Sometimes I used to doubt if there was anything in religion when I saw how poorly his prayers were answered; but I have since learned that the Lord does hear prayer, and that He answers in the best possible way, though when we are suffering it seems hard to wait patiently His good time.”

“But if it is hard for a little spell on earth, there’s a long while to have our wants satisfied when we get where He is in Heaven,” Mrs. Blake said, in her calm, strong way.

“Dear Miss Selwyn, Heaven seemed very close to us in our meeting last night.  I thought of you, and wished so much you were with us.”

“I wish your father would pray that I might have the opportunity to come.  The difficulties in the way just now seem insuperable, but with God’s help they could be removed.”

“Yes, indeed.  I’ve knowed folks that was a hurt to Christians took out of the world uncommon sudden,” Mrs. Blake remarked, with a very meaning nod of her head.

“I do not want Mr. Winthrop to die,” I said, with quick alarm.  “If I had to choose, I think I would rather die myself.”

“I didn’t know you liked him that well.  I reckoned he was hard to please.”

“I acknowledge that he is; but then a word of praise from him is worth a great deal,” I frankly replied.

“I believe you are in the way to win his approval.  A pure, unselfish life must gain the respect of every honest soul, soon or late,” Mrs. Larkum said, with gentle assurance.

There was no more said on the subject.  But the thought that Mr. Bowen was praying for me made me feel more confident that everything would turn out best for me, and for those also in whom I was most interested.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The encounter at st. Mark’s.

I did not forget through the week Mrs. Le Grande’s eagerness for Mr. Winthrop to attend church, and although not permitting myself, if possible, to impute false motives to others, I concluded it was not anxiety for his spiritual well-being that prompted the desire on her part.  However I resolved to ask him, and was very anxious that he should grant my request.  The day dawned bright and clear, one of those hopeful days with promise of the coming summer in the clear shining of the February sun.  At breakfast Mr. Winthrop spoke of the rare loveliness of the morning; the blue of the sky, soft and tender as a mother’s eye, with here and there a fleecy cloud such as painters love to put on their canvas.  Away to the south, the sea was dimpling and sparkling in ten thousand broken ripples, with here and there a brave vessel sailing away over the cold, heaving waters.

Mr. Winthrop seemed in more genial mood than he had been for a week; and when he left the table I followed him to the door, where he stood gazing with eyes trained to take in intelligently the charming scene.  I stood silent, entering in a very half-hearted manner into his keen enjoyment of the picture painted by God’s own hand, spread out before us.