"Then I will stay and pray with you for the dear little child."

Dada had not missed a word of this simple dialogue. The woman whose
child was ill at home, and who had come here to pray for strength or
mercy, had a remarkably sweet face; as the girl saw the two friends bow
their heads and fold their hands with downcast eyes, she thought to
herself: "Now they are praying for the sick child. . ." and
involuntarily she, too, bent her curly head, and murmured softly: "O ye
gods, or thou God of the Christians, or whatever thou art called that
hast power over life and death, make this poor woman's little son well
again. When I get home again I will offer up a cake or a fowl--a lamb is
so costly."

And she fancied that some invisible spirit heard her, and it gave her a
vague satisfaction to repeat her simple supplication over and over again.

Meanwhile a miserable blind dwarf had seated himself by her side; near
him stood the old dog that guided him. He held him by a string and had
been allowed to bring his indispensable comrade into the church. The old
man joined loudly and devoutly in the psalm which the rest of the
congregation were singing; his voice had lost its freshness, no doubt,
but he sang in perfect tune. It was a pleasure to Dada to listen, and
though she only half understood the words of the psalm she easily caught
the air and began to sing too, at first timidly and hardly audibly; but
she soon gained courage and, following the example of little Papias,
joined in with all her might.

She felt as though she had reached land after a stormy and uncomfortable
voyage, and had found refuge in a hospitable home; she looked about her
to discover whether the news of the approaching destruction of the world