'Why could she not pray about it without
telling me?' I argued as I dipped my pen in the ink, not to write to her
but to answer a letter that must be answered that morning. I argued about
it to myself as I turned from one thing to another, working in nervous
haste; for I did more in those days than God required me to do, I served
myself instead of serving him. I was about to take up a book to look over
a poem that I was to read at our literary circle when words from
somewhere arrested me: 'Do you like to have the answer to a prayer of
yours put off and off in this way?' and I answered aloud, 'No, I
_don't_.' 'Then answer this as you like to have God answer you.' And I
sighed, you will hardly believe it, but I _did_ sigh. The enticing poem
went down and two sheets of paper came up and I wrote the letter for
which the poor thing a hundred miles away had been praying three weeks. I
tried to make it cordial, spirited and sympathetic, for that was the kind
she was praying for. And it went to the mail four hours after I had
received her letter."
"I'm so glad," said sympathetic Linnet. "How glad she must have been!"
"Not as glad as I was when I saw her death in the paper yesterday."
"You do write to so many people," said Marjorie.
"I counted my list yesterday as I wrote on it the fifty-third name."
"Oh, dear," exclaimed Linnet, who "hated" to write letters. "What do you
do it for?"
"Perhaps because they need letters, perhaps because I need to write them.
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