question.

 

“He made the country down in Illinois, and He made the Missouri,” the little

girl continued. “I guess somebody else made the country in these parts. It’s not

nearly so well done. They forgot the water and the trees.”

 

“What would ye think of offering up prayer?” the man asked diffidently.

 

“It ain’t night yet,” she answered.

 

“It don’t matter. It ain’t quite regular, but He won’t mind that, you bet. You

say over them ones that you used to say every night in the waggon when we was on

the Plains.”

 

“Why don’t you say some yourself?” the child asked, with wondering eyes.

 

“I disremember them,” he answered. “I hain’t said none since I was half the

height o’ that gun. I guess it’s never too late. You say them out, and I’ll

stand by and come in on the choruses.”

 

“Then you’ll need to kneel down, and me too,” she said, laying the shawl out for

that purpose. “You’ve got to put your hands up like this.

 

It makes you feel kind o’ good.”