before God. "Dear God," she said, "you know how unhappy Miss
Princess is and young Doc, too. Please make them both happy, God.
And please help me not feel sorry about the Pink Dress. For I just
can't help feeling sorry. Please help us all, dear God, and I'll be
such a good girl, God."

Perhaps it is the biggest gift in the world, to be able to pray.
And, by prayer, is not meant the saying over of a formal code, but
the simple, direct speaking with God. It is so simple in the doing,
so marvellous in its reaction, that the strange thing is that it is
not more generally practiced. But there is where the gift comes in:
a supreme essence of spirit which must, if the prayer is to achieve
its end, be first possessed-a thing possessed by all children not
yet quite rid of the glamour of immortality and by some, older, who
contrive to hold enough glamour to be as children throughout life.
Some call this thing Faith, but there are other names just as good;
and the essence lives on forever.

These reflections are not Missy's. She knelt there, without
consciousness of any motive or analysis. She only knew she was
telling it all to God. And presently, in her heart, in whispers
fainter than the stir of the slumbering leaves outside, she heard
His answer. God had heard; she knew it by the peace He laid upon her
tumultuous heart.

Steeped in faith, she fell asleep. But not a dreamless sleep. Missy
always dreamed, these nights: wonderful dreams--magical, splendid,
sometimes vaguely terrifying, often remotely tied up with some event
of the day, but always wonderful. And the last dream she dreamed,
this eventful night, was marvellous indeed. For it was a replica of