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Every evening
(for he had not yet laid aside the habits of childhood) he said his
prayers by his mother's knee, and at the end of one long summer's day,
when prayers were finished, and full of life and happiness he lay down
to sleep, "O mother," he said, "I am so happy--I like to say my prayers
when you are here."
"Yes, my boy, and God loves to hear them."
"Aren't there some who never say prayers, mother?"
"Very many, love, I fear."
"How unhappy they must be! I shall _always_ love to say my prayers."
"Ah, Eric, God grant that you may!"
And the fond mother hoped he always would. But these words often came
back to Eric's mind in later and less happy days--days when that gentle
hand could no longer rest lovingly on his head--when those mild blue
eyes were dim with tears, and the fair boy, changed in heart and life,
often flung himself down with an unreproaching conscience to
prayerless sleep.
It had been settled that in another week Eric was to go to school in
the Isle of Roslyn.


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