upon the road, so distant that it seemed motionless, a
cart with a man in it, drawn by a white horse. Never in her life
before had she felt that she was alone. She had often felt lonely,
but she had always known where to find the bodily presence of
somebody. Now she might cry and scream the whole day, and nobody
answer! Her heart swelled into her throat, then sank away, leaving
a wide hollow. It was so eerie! But Nicie would soon come, and
then all would be well.

She sat down on a stone, where she could see the path she had come a
long way back. But "never and never" did any Nicie appear. At last
she began to cry. This process with Ginny was a very slow one, and
never brought her much relief. The tears would mount into her eyes,
and remain there, little pools of Baca, a long time before the
crying went any further. But with time the pools would grow deeper,
and swell larger, and at last, when they had become two huge little
lakes, the larger from the slowness of their gathering, two mighty
tears would tumble over the edges of their embankments, and roll
down her white mournful cheeks. This time many more followed, and
her eyes were fast becoming fountains, when all at once a verse she
had heard the Sunday before at church seemed to come of itself into
her head: "Call upon me in the time of trouble and I will answer
thee." It must mean that she was to ask God to help her: was that
the same as saying prayers? But she wasn't good, and he wouldn't
hear anybody that wasn't good. Then, if he was only the God of the
good people, what was to become of the rest when they were lost on
mountains? She had better try; it could not do much harm. Even if
he would not hear her, he would not surely be angry with her for
calling upon him when she was in such trouble. So thinking, she
began to pray to what dim distorted reflection of God there was in
her mind. They alone pray to the real God, the maker of the heart
that prays, who know his son Jesus. If our prayers were heard only
in accordance with the idea of God to which we seem to ourselves to
pray, how miserably would our infinite wants be met! But every
honest cry, even if sent into the deaf ear of an idol, passes on to
the ears of the unknown God, the heart of the unknown Father.

"O God, help me home again," cried Ginevra, and stood up in her
great loneliness to return.

The same instant she spied, seated upon a stone, a little way off,
but close to he