ttle talks with
God,--and then she paused. Before her eyes flashed a picture of the
"beautiful morning," for which Carol had just been thankful! She tried
again. "Dear Father,"--and then she whirled around on the floor, and
laughed. Mr. Starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and
literally shook. Fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment.
Even sober little Connie giggled and squealed. But Carol could not get
up. She was disgraced. She had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic
thing. She had insulted God! She could never face the family again.
Her shoulders rose and fell convulsively.

Lark did not laugh either. With a rush she was on her knees beside
Carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders. "Don't you care, Carrie,"
she whispered. "Don't you care. It was just a mistake,--don't cry,
Carrie."

But Carol would not be comforted. She tried to sneak unobserved from the
room, but her father stopped her.

"Don't feel so badly about it, Carol," he said kindly, really sorry for
the stricken child,--though his eyes still twinkled, "it was just a
mistake. But remember after this, my child, to speak to God when you
pray. Remember that you are talking to Him. Then you will not make such
a blunder.--So many of us," he said reflectively, "ministers as well as
others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to
God."

After that, the morning worship went better. The prayers of the children
changed,--became more personal, less flowery. They remembered from that
time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of God, and speaking
direct to Him.

It was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking
turns about with the washing. This time was always given up to
story-telling, for Lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and
Carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight. Even Connie found
dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her
hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at
the young story-teller. Now, some of Lark's stories were such weird and
fearful things that they had seriously interfered with Connie's slumbers,
and Prudence had sternly prohibited them. But this evening, just as she
opened the kitchen door, she heard Lark say in thrilling tones:

"She crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly
over the rail. Suddenly she stopped. Her hand was a