Olive had sat perfectly still, and heard all this, quite unconscious that her feet were getting chilly in the cold oven, or that, perhaps, she should have notified them of her presence. She had a vague feeling, as of one trying hard to solve a problem, and pausing suddenly in her vain efforts, to listen to some one solving it for her. But surely they could not be right! Olive left her seat noiselessly, and went up the back stairs to her room. It was bitterly cold there, but she wrapped her shawl about her, and sat down by the window, where the fast falling snow was almost hidden in a heavy wrap of early twilight. Olive did not often pray. To be sure she said her prayers every night, as properly and methodical as clockwork, and was very particular about always kneeling down, as though position could atone for any lacking earnestness; for she was just as apt to be thinking of her account-book, or Mr. Dane's last order, as of anything, in the hurried words that slid over her lips. Yes, she prayed in this way once in every twenty-four hours, but there never came to her any of those sudden, passionate appeals for help or strength, when the whole heart leaps to the lips, or pleads dumbly, in its great need. Notwithstanding all teachings to the point, it never really occurred to her that God had as quick and sympathetic an ear for a little prayer of few words over some trivial worry, given silently in the busy kitchen, or on the crowded street, as He had for those when she knelt down at night, and absently asked for her daily bread, and to forgive as she was forgiven, and then get properly into bed and refrained from speaking again, lest she spoilt the effect. At any rate, the first prayer that had ever sprung to her lips, with the suddenness of utter helplessness, came from them now, as she sat there, trying to think and battle with hasty conclusions that would spring up: "Oh God, please don't let me try to think it out alone, because I will get it all wrong if I do. If it is my fault, make me feel it and know how to act, and don't let me be so odd, or whatever it is that makes me feel as I do." With the earnestness of the request, came a quiet feeling that she felt to be her answer, and all the time she sat there, which was until the supper-bell rang, she felt more contented than ever before with her thoughts. Not that God immediately took away her faults, and left her placid and quiet, with nothing to battle against, because He does not do that way; it can never be said to us: "Well done, good and faithful servant," if we've done nothing; and the battling with our faults and worries is just as much our work, as the successful doing of some great deed that may bring both God's pleasure and an earthly halo.