He saw
that it was hopeless.
"Marcella--when your father was ill, did he pray?"
"Yes. All the time."
"I wish I could," he murmured.
"Why not, if you want to? Wanting to pray is a prayer, really."
"I don't feel fit to, Marcella. Do you think you could pray for me,
girlie?" he said, looking past her at the wall.
"I--I don't think I could--out loud. I'd feel as if I were
eavesdropping. But I can in my mind, if you like."
"Let's kneel down, then, like we did in the funny little tin tabernacle
when we were married," he said, and with an unsteady spring he was out
of bed and kneeling by her side. For five minutes they were very quiet,
she with her face buried in the counterpane as she prayed vaguely to
herself and God and her father to help him. So intent was she that she
did not feel his hand in her pocket. She thought his look of relief when
they stood up and he kissed her meant that once more he had beaten his
enemy.
"Girlie--go down and fill the bath for me! Right full to the brim with
cold water. Like ducking in Jordan! I feel good now. I'm going to be
clothed and in my right mind, now," he said earnestly. When she came
back, her shoulders squared again, he had vanished. She did not miss her
purse until she went to the door to buy milk. Luckily there was not very
much in it.
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