a young girl like that with her husband dying and a baby coming on. He remembered that he must go again to-morrow and pray with her. It was odd (he thought) how little prayer seemed to comfort her—a girl like that who was a missionary and the daughter of missionaries. He must have a talk with her and try to help her. . . . She seemed to be losing her great faith. . . .
He was on the front porch of the parsonage now, turning his key in the lock, and something of the wild emotion of the prayer-meeting still clung to him. It had been a glorious success. He was still thinking of Naomi as he closed the door, and heard a whining voice from the top of the stairs.
"Is that you, Samuel?"
He waited for a moment and then answered, "Yes, my dear."
"What kept you so late? I've been frightened to death. The house was full of noises and I heard some one walking about in the parlor."
"We prayed for Philip Downes," he said, turning out the light.
The whining voice from above-stairs took on an acid edge. "And you never thought about your poor suffering wife at home all alone. I suppose it never occurs to you to pray for me!"
He stood in the darkness, waiting, unwilling to climb the stairs until her complaints had worn themselves out. The voice again: "Samuel, are you there?"
"Yes, Annie."
"Why don't you answer me? Isn't it enough to have to lie here helpless and miserable?"
"I was turning out the light."
