[Illustration: SHE HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN HER RESOLVES.] “God hasn’t answered my prayer at all,” she said to herself, and the great disappointment made her hand shake as she set the water-pitcher down before the doctor. Mr. Moore didn’t think his little girl had heard the doctor’s words, and he looked after her with a troubled sigh as she went back to the kitchen. How should he tell her? Would she storm and cry as she had been wont to do when her will was crossed? He decided that he would not tell her that day. The breakfast dishes washed, Johnnie at school, and her father up-stairs, Margaret betook herself to the kitchen to wail out her sorrow and pity herself. She dared not go to her own room, lest she should be heard. Rebellion was in her soul, and the more she cried the more she pitied herself and cried again. Mr. Wakefield, coming to the kitchen to ask for some warm water, found Margaret with her arms on the table, and her head on her arms, sobbing great angry, disappointed sobs. He stopped in dismay. “Why, Margaret, what is the matter? Is there anything I can do for you?” “No, there isn’t! God hasn’t answered my prayer! You said he would! Now I’ve got to stay at home and wait on _her_! I don’t believe he heard me at all!” Margaret fairly screamed this out. She had worked herself into such a state that she scarcely knew what she was saying. Was this the gentle, humble Christian he had received into the church but two days before? This thought passed through the minister’s mind, but he was too wise to express it to the excited little girl. He only asked quietly: “Margaret, does your father always say ‘yes’ to you when you ask for something?” “Why, no; of course not!” she said, in surprise. “And suppose you should ask for something, and he should say No, would you come and tell me that your father would not answer you?” She did not answer this time, and Mr. Wakefield went on: “Suppose your father knows that what you ask would be very hurtful to you, would you think him cruel to refuse you?” “But this isn’t hurtful! It’s best for me! God wants me to be a Christian, and I never can be one in this house!” she burst out. “Margaret, which do you think knows best, you who know so little, or God who made you, and who sees all things that ever have happened or ever will happen in your life? My little friend, I am afraid you didn’t pray in the right spirit,”— “O, yes, I did!” she interrupted eagerly. “I believed. I thought of course He would give it to me.” “But believing is not the only thing. You forgot to put one little sentence in, ‘Thy will be done.’ If you had put it in words your prayer would sound something like this: ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Margaret Moore’s will be done,’”— At this Margaret couldn’t help smiling through her tears.