"
And so our good Teresa, in order to satisfy the poor child, promised to
pray for her that very night.
"No," insisted Paula, "let's pray now."
Our poor servant looked around her in dismay.
"I--! I pray here! In front of you and Lisita and Rosa! Never--! Besides, I
wouldn't know what to say."
"Do you mean to say that you don't know, 'Our Father which art in heaven?'"
"Perhaps, but it's some time since I've repeated that prayer. I remember my
poor mother. I used to kneel beside her and repeat it when I was your age.
Once in a while since then, I have said my 'paternoster.' But it's been
many years since it's passed my lips, and I haven't even thought of it for
ages. No, no; it's useless. No, Paula, you pray for us. We certainly need
it, but as for me praying--a poor sinner like me--I tell you it's useless."
But Paula was not easily discouraged.
"Teresa," and Paula put her cheek against the wrinkled one of our old
servant, "you know that Jesus died for us, and do you mean to say,
notwithstanding that, you are living like a heathen."
"What's that you say? Like a heathen?" cried poor Teresa.
"Yes, Teresa dear, like a heathen. My father used to read me missionary
stories on Sunday, and in these stories I always noticed that the heathen
people live without praying to God, and that they didn't read the Bible,
and that they didn't know how to sing any hymns, and they had no church to
go to, that is, until the missionaries came.
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