I was in great pain for more than a week. Charley’s attentions were unremitting. In fact he nursed me more like a woman than a boy; and made me think with some contrition how poor my ministrations had been. Even after the worst was over, if I but moved, he was at my bedside in a moment. Certainly no nurse could have surpassed him. I could bear no one to touch me but him: from any one else I dreaded torture; and my medicine was administered to the very moment by my own old watch, which had been brought to do its duty at least respectably. One afternoon, finding me tolerably comfortable, he said, ‘Shall I read something to you, Wilfrid?’ He never called me Willie, as most of my friends did. ‘I should like it,’ I answered. ‘What shall I read?’ he asked. ‘Hadn’t you something in your head,’ I rejoined, ‘when you proposed it?’ ‘Well, I had; but I don’t know if you would like it.’ ‘What did you think of, then?’ ‘I thought of a chapter in the New Testament.’ ‘How could you think I should not like that?’ ‘Because I never saw you say your prayers.’ ‘That is quite true. But you don’t think I never say my prayers, although you never see me do it?’ The fact was, my uncle, amongst his other peculiarities, did not approve of teaching children to say their prayers. But he did not therefore leave me without instruction in the matter of praying--either the idlest or the most availing of human actions. He would say, ‘When you want anything, ask for it, Willie; and if it is worth your having, you will have it. But don’t fancy you are doing God any service by praying to him. He likes you to pray to him because he loves you, and wants you to love him. And whatever you do, don’t go saying a lot of words you don’t mean. If you think you ought to pray, say your Lord’s Prayer, and have done with it.’ I had no theory myself on the matter; but when I was in misery on the wild mountains, I had indeed prayed to God; and had even gone so far as to hope, when I got what I prayed for, that he had heard my prayer. Charley made no reply. ‘It seems to me better that sort of thing shouldn’t be seen, Charley,’ I persisted. ‘Perhaps, Wilfrid; but I was taught to say my prayers regularly.’ ‘I don’t think much of that either,’ I answered. ‘But I’ve said a good many prayers since I’ve been here, Charley. I can’t say I’m sure it’s of any use, but I can’t help trying after something--I don’t know what--something I want, and don’t know how to get.’ ‘But it’s only the prayer of faith that’s heard--do you believe, Wilfrid?’ ‘I don’t know. I daren’t say I don’t. I wish I could say I do. But I dare say things will be considered.’ ‘Wouldn’t it be grand if it was true, Wilfrid?’ ‘What, Charley?’ ‘That God actually let his creatures see him--and--all that came of it, you know?’