She sat still
a long time, with the sober look deepening on her face. At last she got
down on her knees and rested her little hard hands on the hard snow which
covered Johnny's bed, and she said, "Jesus, I want to be what Tip says. I
want to love you if you'll let me. Nobody loves me, I guess. Tip says
you'll help me all the time. If you will, I'll try."
After she had said this, slowly and thoughtfully, stopping long between
each sentence, she didn't feel like rising up; she wanted to say more, so
she repeated it, adding, "Tip says I must be good. I can't be good, but
I'll try."
Over and over was the simple, earnest prayer repeated.
Tip did not go back to Johnny's grave; he took a side road down
through the edge of the grove, and so went home; and when he reached
home, he went up to his attic room, and knelt down and prayed for
Kitty as only those _can_ pray who have been working as well as
asking for what they want.
Kitty was stirring the pudding for supper when he saw her
again,--stirring away hard at the heavy mass, which grew thicker and
harder to stir every moment.
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