She sat quite still, staring straight in front of her. Strange
that in this place she did not want to pray. She who had prayed so
constantly at home didn't seem able to do it here at all. The first
morning she had merely thrown up a brief thank you to heaven on getting
out of bed, and had gone straight to the window to see what everything
looked like--thrown up the thank you as carelessly as a ball, and
thought no more about it. That morning, remembering this and ashamed,
she had knelt down with determination; but perhaps determination was
bad for prayers, for she had been unable to think of a thing to say.
And as for her bedtime prayers, on neither of the nights had she said a
single one. She had forgotten them. She had been so much absorbed in
other thoughts that she had forgotten them; and, once in bed, she was
asleep and whirling along among bright, thin swift dreams before she
had so much time as to stretch herself out.
What had come over her? Why had she let go the anchor of prayer?
And she had difficulty, too, in remembering her poor, in remembering
even that there were such things as poor. Holidays, of course, were
good, and were recognized by everybody as good, but ought they so
completely to blot out, to make such havoc of, the realities? Perhaps
it was healthy to forget her poor; with all the greater gusto would she
go back to them.
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