"He has always been kind," I said. "Kinder than Rupert. I think it is a shame of Mrs. Hammond to say such things. I shall never like Mrs. Hammond again." "No, you will hardly trust her," Mary said. But I fancy she had expected something different from me. She sat still, looking thoughtful, even sad; and I made an excuse about wanting cotton, and so got away. I felt so wretched, I could bear no more. Yet all this did not shake my belief in Mr. Russell. If he meant to keep it a secret about what he and I felt for each other, or what I thought we felt, he was likely to try to put his sister off the scent. No doubt he found that Mrs. Hammond's gossip was getting to be known, and so he told Mary himself to be beforehand. I did wonder whether it was that story coming out which helped to settle him so sudden to leave the place. Mary had not done with the matter yet. When she was in bed, I always slipped in to say a last good-night, and she liked it. Often she was sleepy, and said only a word. But that evening she was wide awake, and she took my face between her hands, and looked at it. "Kitty, you are getting pale," she told me. "O no," I answered. "Saying no doesn't alter things," she said. "Are you poorly?" "No," I said. "Poor little Kitty!" she whispered, and she kissed my cheek. "I'm only come to—say good-night," I said. "Yes, I know," said she; yet she wouldn't let go. She pulled me down till I lay beside her, with my face against hers, and then she asked— "Kitty, do you ever pray?" "Yes," I said, "every morning and evening." "You say your prayers, don't you?" said she. "But is it real praying?" "I—don't know," I whispered. "Because there is no such comfort in anything else," she said. "When one is troubled or puzzled, there's nothing like going straight to God, and telling Him all about it. Not only telling, but putting the whole thing into His hands, and asking Him to arrange everything. Do you remember how the disciples went and 'told Jesus' directly they heard of St. John the Baptist's death?" "Yes," I said faintly. "And we can do the same about everything—we ought to do the same," she went on. "He is always near—always kind and ready to help. He always answers if we really call upon Him." I only said "Yes." The words didn't come home to me particularly then, though perhaps they did later. "I think you are troubled now about something, and puzzled too," said she. "Oh, I don't know," I said.