Not the most agreeable of tasks was this; for Mrs. Beauchamp considered that it was "improving" for her granddaughter to read aloud for at least half an hour every evening. Monica was not a very fluent reader, so that she was continually being pulled up for leaving out commas, or for emphasising quite the wrong word. The interruptions would have been very trying if the book had been even the least bit interesting, but as it really seemed to have been chosen for its dryness and dullness, Monica did not mind. However, she tried her hardest, nowadays, to read carefully, and with a fair amount of expression, and she was far less often interrupted than she used to be. She did want to be what Marcus Drury called a "whatsoever" Christian. "You really begin to read quite nicely, Monica," her grandmother said approvingly, as she finished a chapter, and was told that would do for that evening. "Your father would be greatly pleased with the improvement there has been in you lately." Tears of joy sprang to Monica’s eyes, as she put the book away, and then stooped and gave the old lady a "good-night" kiss. "What has made the difference in you, Monica?" And for the second time that day the young girl answered radiantly, but humbly, "The Lord Jesus Christ." "Little Elsa said that was what it was," muttered Mrs. Beauchamp under her breath, as she toyed nervously with her eye-glasses. "Well, child, keep it up, it answers very well," she added, in a louder tone. "It would be no use for me to try to keep myself, grannie dear," was the stammering reply, "for I should do something wrong directly, but when I let Jesus hold me tight, then it is all right." Mrs. Beauchamp made no answer, and, after waiting a moment or two, Monica slipped off, fearful lest she had offended her grandmother. But the old lady sat thinking deeply for a long, long time--thinking of the past when she was a girl of Monica’s age, and with as headstrong a nature as hers--thinking of her married life, when her whole time and thought had been given to the things of this world--thinking of the unrestful, unsatisfying present, and of the dark, dark future stretching out beyond. "Little Elsa told me, once, that she prayed God every day to bless me," she murmured, while a tear trickled slowly down her cheek. "God bless the child ... and me, too!"