f their wants. At first Lois wondered at the aptitude of one or
two prayers of this description to the outward circumstances of each
case; but when she perceived that her aunt had usually a pretty long
confidential conversation with the minister in the early part of his
visit, she became aware that he received both his impressions and his
knowledge through the medium of 'that godly woman, Grace Hickson;' and
I am afraid she paid less regard to the prayer 'for the maiden from
another land, who hath brought the errors of that land as a seed with
her, even across the great ocean, and who is letting even now the
little seeds shoot up into an evil tree, in which all unclean creatures
may find shelter.'

'I like the prayers of our Church better,' said Lois, one day to Faith.
'No clergyman in England can pray his own words, and therefore it is
that he cannot judge of others so as to fit his prayers to what he
esteems to be their case, as Mr. Tappau did this morning.'

'I hate Mr. Tappau!' said Faith, shortly, a passionate flash of light
coming out of her dark, heavy eyes.

'Why so cousin? It seems to me as if he were a good man, although I
like not his prayers.'

Faith only repeated her words, 'I hate him.'

Lois was sorry for this strong bad feeling; instinctively sorry, for
she was loving herself, delighted in being loved, and felt a jar run
through her at every sign of want of love in others. But she did not
know what to say, and was silent at the time. Faith, too, went on
turning her wheel with vehemence, but spoke never a word until her
thread snapped, and then she pushed the wheel away hastily and left the
room.

Then Prudence crept softly up to Lois's side. This strange child seemed
to be tossed about by varying moods: to-day she was caressing and
communicative, to-morrow she might be deceitful, mocking, and so
indifferent to the pain or sorrows of others that you could call her
almost inhuman.

'So thou dost not like Pastor Tappau's prayers?' she whispered.

Lois was sorry to have been overheard, but she neither would nor could
take back her words.

'I like them not so well as the prayers I used to hear at home.'

'Mother says thy home was with the ungodly. Nay, don't look at me
so--it was not I that said it. I'm none so fond of praying myself, nor
of Pastor Tappau for that matter. But Faith cannot abide him, and I
know why. Shall I tell thee, cousin Lois?'

'No! Faith did not tell me, and she was the rig