‘Why do you do that?’

’Because I have always done so, and it would seem strange if I were not to.  Do you?’

’I?  A wicked old sinner like me!  No, I never do.  I have thought all such matters humbug for years—­thought so so long that I should be glad to think otherwise from very weariness; and yet, such is the code of the polite world, that I subscribe regularly to Missionary Societies and others of the sort. . . .  Well, say your prayers, dear—­you won’t omit them now you recollect it.  I should like to hear you very much.  Will you?’

‘It seems hardly—­’

’It would seem so like old times to me—­when I was young, and nearer—­far nearer Heaven than I am now.  Do, sweet one,’

Cytherea was embarrassed, and her embarrassment arose from the following conjuncture of affairs.  Since she had loved Edward Springrove, she had linked his name with her brother Owen’s in her nightly supplications to the Almighty.  She wished to keep her love for him a secret, and, above all, a secret from a woman like Miss Aldclyffe; yet her conscience and the honesty of her love would not for an instant allow her to think of omitting his dear name, and so endanger the efficacy of all her previous prayers for his success by an unworthy shame now:  it would be wicked of her, she thought, and a grievous wrong to him.  Under any worldly circumstances she might have thought the position justified a little finesse, and have skipped him for once; but prayer was too solemn a thing for such trifling.

‘I would rather not say them,’ she murmured first.  It struck her then that this declining altogether was the same cowardice in another dress, and was delivering her poor Edward over to Satan just as unceremoniously as before.  ’Yes; I will say my prayers, and you shall hear me,’ she added firmly.

She turned her face to the pillow and repeated in low soft tones the simple words she had used from childhood on such occasions.  Owen’s name was mentioned without faltering, but in the other case, maidenly shyness was too strong even for religion, and that when supported by excellent intentions.  At the name of Edward she stammered, and her voice sank to the faintest whisper in spite of her.

‘Thank you, dearest,’ said Miss Aldclyffe.  ’I have prayed too, I verily believe.  You are a good girl, I think.’  Then the expected question came.

‘"Bless Owen,” and whom, did you say?’

There was no help for it now, and out it came.  ‘Owen and Edward,’ said Cytherea.

‘Who are Owen and Edward?’

‘Owen is my brother, madam,’ faltered the maid.

‘Ah, I remember.  Who is Edward?’

A silence.

‘Your brother, too?’ continued Miss Aldclyffe.

‘No.’

Miss Aldclyffe reflected a moment.  ’Don’t you want to tell me who Edward is?’ she said at last, in a tone of meaning.

‘I don’t mind telling; only . . .’