“Well never mind—I don’t like talking about God,” said Ilse uncomfortably.
“I do,” said Emily. “I think God is a very interesting subject, and I’m going to pray for you, Ilse, that you can believe in Father’s God.”
“Don’t you dast!” shouted Ilse, who for some mysterious reason did not like the idea. “I won’t be prayed for!”
“Don’t you ever pray yourself, Ilse?”
“Oh, now and then—when I feel lonesome at night—or when I’m in a scrape. But I don’t want any one else to pray for me. If I catch you doing it, Emily Starr, I’ll tear your eyes out. And don’t you go sneaking and praying for me behind my back either.”
“All right, I won’t,” said Emily sharply, mortified at the failure of her well-meant offer. “I’ll pray for every single soul I know, but I’ll leave you out.”
For a moment Ilse looked as if she didn’t like this either. Then she laughed and gave Emily a volcanic hug.
“Well, anyway, please like me. Nobody likes me, you know.”
“Your father must like you, Ilse.”
“He doesn’t,” said Ilse positively. “Father doesn’t care a hoot about me. I think there’s times when he hates the sight of me. I wish he did like me because he can be awful nice when he likes any one. Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up? I’m going to be an elo-cu-tion-ist.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman who recites at concerts. I can do it dandy. What are you going to be?”
“A poetess.”
“Golly!” said Ilse, apparently overcome. “I don’t believe you can write poetry,” she added.
“I can so, too,” cried Emily. “I’ve written three pieces—‘Autumn’ and ‘Lines to Rhoda’—only I burned
