"Doctor Randolph," Elise asked suddenly, "what is your conception of prayer? Evadne says it means to her communion and companionship with Jesus. She says it is 'the practice of the presence of God.'" John Randolph's face grew luminous. "To me it means a great stillness," he said. "Did you ever think of the silences of God? 'Be still, and know that I am God,' 'Stand still, and see his salvation.'" "But are we not to ask for what we want?" asked Mrs. Hawthorne wonderingly. "Oh, yes, but we learn to ask so little for ourselves when we love our Father's will. The trouble is, we, want to do the talking. God would have us listen while he speaks." "Then what does it mean to worship God?" she asked. "We cannot always be in church." John Randolph smiled. "We do not need to be. If our hearts are all on fire with the love of God, we worship him continually." When he rose to go he turned towards Evadne. "How goes life with you now, dear friend?" The grey eyes, full of a clear shining, were lifted to his, "I am absolutely satisfied with Jesus Christ." Marion was married and living in New York. Louis had taken a small house, where he lived with his mother and Isabelle. He spent his days in the monotonous routine of a hank, and to his pleasure-loving nature the drudgery seemed intolerable, but he said little. Evadne never complained! One day he went to see her at the Hospital and she was frightened at the pallor of his face. She led him to the superintendent's reception room--there they would be undisturbed. He staggered blindly as he entered the room and then sank heavily on a sofa near the door. He looked like an old man. "Louis!" she cried in alarm, "what is the matter?" He took a letter from his pocket and held it toward her. It bore her own name, and the writing was her father's! "Can you _ever_ forgive?" Then he buried his face in his arms and groaned aloud. The awful disgrace and shame of it seemed more than he could bear. Interminable seemed the hours after Louis had left her, walking slowly, with that strange, grey shadow upon his face, and stooping as if some unseen burden were crushing him to the earth. She dared not let herself think. She must wait until she was alone. At last she was free to go to her room. Down on her knees she read the passionate farewell words, which made her heart thrill, so full of tender advice and loving thought for her comfort. Through streaming tears she looked at the closely written pages of instructions, so minute that she could not err--and he had disliked writing so much! This was the weary task which had tried him so! And all these years she had never known. She had been robbed of her birthright! Fierce and long the battle raged. When it was ended God heard his child cry softly, "Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us." She had forgiven! CHAPTER XXXI.